


Everything That Washes Away

by Michelle_A_Emerlind



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Archive Warnings Described in Notes, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, M/M, Mpreg, Open Relationship, Polyamory, past Hamilton/Laurens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-08
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-08-29 21:38:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 68,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8506501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Michelle_A_Emerlind/pseuds/Michelle_A_Emerlind
Summary: In Hamilton's darkest hour, it's surprising that the only person who understands him is the one he was sure wouldn't get him at all. Alpha/Beta/Omega Fic. Alternatively known as the one in which Hamilton and Jefferson slowly fall in love while Hamilton grieves the loss of Laurens and while, oh yeah, Hamilton is pregnant with Laurens' baby.





	1. The Light From Your Door

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, everyone! Thanks for clicking on this story! Below is some information about the story as a whole:
> 
>  **SCHEDULE:** This fic will be posted on Tuesdays and Fridays. The entire fic is complete except for an epilogue, which I am finishing up shortly. 
> 
> **BETAS:** Thank you to the lovely Skarlatha, as always, for being there with me every step of the way! And thank you to all the people that have been waiting patiently for this thing to post. :)
> 
>  **ALPHA/BETA/OMEGA:** A note on the a/b/o of this thing. If you don't know what a/b/o is, there are some awesome articles on fanlore, A03, and other places describing it! What a/b/o things WILL be in this story: society expectations and pressure, auras, mpreg, alphas giving comfort, omegas with extra submissive things they do, self lubrication. What will NOT be in this story: specific heats, knotting (although I imagine it does happen, it just don't happen on screen), the birth (there is some before and after hospital stuff, but no actual birth scene), lactation. As far as the biology of it goes, feel free to image that omegas have both functional sexual organs, if you would like, or if you want to just say there's some ass babies, okay! Imagine what you will! 
> 
> **ARCHIVE WARNINGS AND TAGS:** A note on the "creator choose not to use" archive warnings. It is there for two reasons. #1: John is dead at the beginning of the story, but since this is primarily Hamilton/Jefferson, I wanted to leave the MCD as an element, but not the entirety of the story. #2: There is some violence stuff that has happened in the PAST of the characters and that will be mentioned in future chapters. Any chapter that I feel could potentially be triggering, I will post a warning in the notes. If you are worried about these, feel free to email me at MichelleAEmerlind@outlook.com and I will give you more details!
> 
> And, as always, with my stories, this does have a happy ending, even if there is angst along the way!!!!
> 
>  **CHAPTER ONE NOTES:** This chapter describes John's death and may be triggering. The circumstances of his death are mentioned, but there is no actual scene/deep description.

Jefferson arrives early to the building as he always does, unlocking the main door with only a passing thought that it must be his day instead of Hamilton’s. Not that that’s surprising. The horizon is still a dark gray, belligerent to the dawn’s light that will fly from it within the next few moments and, Jefferson pauses to remember, it was Hamilton’s lamp that was the last to extinguish Friday, so naturally it is Jefferson that arrives first Monday.

He walks into the room and hits the florescent lights on the main floor, heading to his own office in a morning daze. He passes Lafayette’s cubicle and then Angelica’s, pausing at Madison’s to admire how the man has already packed a box to move to a better office even though Washington hasn’t given the final approval yet. He meanders to the right side of the room and the sign that reads _Thomas Jefferson_ , with the little “A” superscript for alpha after his name. Tics of social etiquette.

He sticks his key in his door and it opens to the four walls that greet him more these days than his own house. Across the open area, Hamilton-- _Alexander_ _Hamilton O_\--’s left-side office remains dark and unoccupied. Jefferson gives it no thought, especially knowing that Laurens will have returned from South Carolina and the couple will no doubt have celebrated their relationship last night.

No thought, that is, until the clock slowly passes and six a.m. turns into seven, which turns into seven thirty and Jefferson pauses with his hands above his keyboard to frown at the door he always has half an eye on, the cold blackness of the inside that should be clattering with the noise of Hamilton’s occupancy, no matter what his weekend had been. _My god_ , Jefferson thinks to himself, _Lafayette is even here_.

So where is Hamilton?

 ***

Others file in and the day begins. Noise starts up the same as usual--the copier running, computers flicking to life, typing the baseline white noise. Someone turns the coffee pot on and Jefferson rolls his eyes yet again at how his office is next to the breakroom. He half listens to the gossip, which this morning is taken up with Hamilton’s new bill and the rather striking oddity of an equal opportunity measure being championed through the Treasury.

Not that the actual topic surprises anyone. Of course, the upstart, tenacious, loud-mouthed omega Hamilton would be fighting for omega rights and, if Jefferson is being honest, it’s rather embarrassing for the rest of them that he _had_ to draft the damn bill in the first place. It should have been the purview of Madison or Burr or, probably most likely, Jefferson. Especially considering that Jefferson has had his own version of the bill on his desk for months and has always _meant_ to place it on the floor, even though it kept getting the backburner in lieu of other damage control bills--namely anything that could stop Hamilton centralizing American credit. So in a way, it’s Hamilton’s own fault that Jefferson’s focus has been tied up in financial affairs and not the civil rights of unmated omegas to keep their offices instead of being fired without cause. Still, Jefferson is planning on voting in favor, perhaps even campaigning for the bill’s adoption, because there’s no way in hell he’s going to be the guy that stands in the way of social progress. He’s not _that_ alpha.

And as much as he can loathe Hamilton at times, he would rather beat him at a battle of wits anyday than fall back onto the old and dull argument of “well, you’re a lesser social class than me.” So on this one thing, they agree. Anti-discriminatory laws should be adopted to protect the rights of all who wish to take part in their new country and there’s no way that they’ll be kicking Hamilton’s unmated ass out of office anytime soon for something as dumb as the genetics he was born with.

Which makes it even _more_ curious that Hamilton still isn’t at work. Jefferson checks the time. Eight thirty and the meeting to begin preliminary discussions over the omega bill begins at nine. Hamilton is supposed to present the case and if he’s not here to present, well...he wouldn’t miss it. That’s the point.

But still, the time drags on. And Jefferson gathers up his laptop and padfolio to retire to the conference room far before Hamilton ever shows his face. When he enters, he finds Adams looking bored, Madison and Washington arguing over the unoccupied office, and Angelica in the corner nursing her Starbucks and looking like she’s about to cut a bitch. Burr files in after Jefferson--who is still waiting with an eye toward the lobby--but before anyone else can enter the room, Washington breaks from Madison and calls them all to order as it’s already five minutes past.

There’s general murmuring and settling down in chairs before Washington begins, only to be interrupted by the door opening one more time to Lafayette as he slides inside. Jefferson frowns as he’s unsure what French relations have to do with civil law, but before any of them can even think to ask the question, Lafayette whispers in a voice that is strangely weak, “Hamilton isn’t coming today, sir.”

Washington blinks. “Oh. Well...is he ill?”

Lafayette swallows, crossing his arms over his chest, and Jefferson finally notices the deep set frown to his face, the hunch of his shoulders, the aura of emergency that pours off the omega’s skin. “Laurens...Laurens is dead.” There’s a general silence that’s broken by mutters of disbelief, before Lafayette catches his breath to continue. “So Hamilton will not be in today.”

“Of course,” Washington jumps in as Adams starts to whisper to Madison about how devastating it must be to lose your alpha, even if they _were_ unwed. Jefferson has half a mind to smack him into silence. Now isn’t the time and he finds it rather uncouth, anyway, to reduce the startlingly close relationship that Laurens and Hamilton had always seemed to have down to mere biology. “How did…?”

“Protest,” Lafayette says with a sigh. “He was protesting the laws in South Carolina. Things...got out of hand. Police force and a man in the crowd fired and--” Lafayette cuts off as the door smacks open behind him and everyone draws a sharp breath when Hamilton strides inside and drops like a sack of flour into his usual seat near the head of the table, his hair and clothes all askew.

Lafayette shifts awkwardly and Washington merely swallows before saying, “Alex--” Even Thomas, further down the table, can feel the smooth and carefully crafted solace of Washington’s aura as he tries to be the stand-up alpha and comfort the wounded.

“The issue on the table,” Hamilton snaps, ignoring Washington’s attempt and Lafayette as he opens his mouth to speak, “is that we have to have an ounce of civility to a third of our population and the number of omegas currently being booted from their jobs for no apparent reasoning beyond the genetics in their body is startling and so I am moving to place this bill on the floor.”

“Alex,” Lafayette whispers from behind him and moves to put a hand on his shoulder, but Hamilton shrugs it off cold and effectively.

“Well?” Hamilton continues with only a slight crack to his voice. “Are we having this meeting or what?”

Washington slides kind eyes his way. Angelica fidgets in her seat. Madison lowers his gaze and even Lafayette chews his lip instead of giving an answer. So it falls to Jefferson, then, to clear his throat and say as clear as day, “Your second clause is really a work of depravity and I would completely remove the paragraph that states it is unlawful to refuse religious service to an unmated omega via separation of church and state, but otherwise, yes. The bill should be placed for voting.”

Everyone stares wide-eyed in Jefferson’s direction and he’s half afraid Washington is going to strangle him on sight, but to everyone’s vast surprise, Hamilton merely gives a sigh of relief and relaxes into his seat. “Let’s continue the discussion, shall we?”

***

Hamilton works throughout the day, pouring himself into his agenda so hard that he barely gives the rest of the office a reprieve from his rants and certainly no time for anyone to say anything even remotely related to Laurens. The meeting goes well, in so far as the bill is placed at the committee level for review and markup before it goes to the overarching body for vote.

As for the rest of it, well, Jefferson doesn’t know. He sticks to his office for the majority of the working hours, unsure of what he would even say to Hamilton and definitely sure he has nothing to say to the others that take moments to retreat to corners in hushed, gossiping whispers.  

He catches up on his paperwork, goes through his email, reviews the stack of bills he’s been meaning to get to since last Tuesday, and completes as many non-people-required tasks as possible. The day slips on and it turns into afternoon and before he knows it, computers slam shut around him and chairs squeak as people stand, the mass exodus for the day complete.

Hamilton stays. Jefferson looks to the light still on in his office and waits patiently for it to extinguish, but it never does. Silence is broken occasionally by flurries of activity from Hamilton, the sound of a phone being hung up with a venomous “ _shit,_ ” but Jefferson doesn’t invade. He keeps working steadily through six and then onward to seven until the sun outside begins to dim.

With a sigh, he stands and stretches his caged muscles, hits his computer off and walks out, turns the switch on his way. Hamilton’s light is still bright and Jefferson can just make out the shape of his body through the pebbled glass. He knows better than to think that Hamilton wants company, is smart enough to be aware that his current grief tactic is avoidance. But still. Jefferson can’t walk out without at least giving a measure of condolences.

So he gathers himself up and walks softly that way, knocks on the half open door like he’s never bothered to before and starts, “Hamilton? Just wanted to say sorry for y--”

But Hamilton is up quicker than a rattlesnake and shoves Jefferson back, slamming the door in his face. Jefferson blinks at the white wood that greets him, but he can’t say he didn’t expect as much, so he sighs into the office. He gives Hamilton a couple of seconds pause to change his mind, but when he doesn’t, Jefferson turns slowly on his heel and walks away.

***

This time when Jefferson arrives, Hamilton is already there. Or he never left. His light is shining and his keys are already clacking away work, so Jefferson leaves him to it.

Tuesday is morose. John Adams and Burr begin the day immediately talking about news on the protest and the rather gory amount of facts they’ve been able to find out about Laurens. Jefferson has to stand and swing around the wall that joins his office to the break room to snap their heads off in a lecture about mutual respect.

Hamilton is a powder keg. He spends half the day riled with energy, coming at anyone who steps foot into his path and intentionally releasing his aura that is stone sharp and reminds Jefferson of freshly made bricks burning in the sun. For the other half, though, he slumps so worn and so fragile that Jefferson is afraid he might faint right there in the middle of the cubicles. He’s fairly sure Hamilton received no sleep the night before, not that he can blame him for that. Laurens and Hamilton had been together for years, two wild revolutionaries bent on bucking the system in mutual whirlwinds. They had never married, never officially mated, but everyone knew the acts they got up to together, how Laurens had soiled Hamilton’s omega virtue and how Hamilton had begged for it to be soiled. And it was all well and good. It was true that neither one of them gave a fuck. Until now. Now when the alpha was dead and the omega left alone and Jefferson knows without a shadow of a doubt that Alexander Hamilton could never be called defenseless, but it’s still cruel, anyway, the grim joke of the universe, the pieces that Laurens left behind.

Hamilton’s friends notice, too, his state of distress. Like usual, Hamilton and Jefferson are the last at work and they have both taken to leaving their doors askew, so Jefferson hears every word of the argument.

“You can’t stay in your office _again_ ,” Mulligan soothes from the doorway. “Come home and get some rest, Alex.”

“You’ll feel better,” Lafayette adds. “I know nothing can make it alright, but at least this way, you can get a bit of energy back in you. And you have to eat. Please? Come home--”

“Fuck the both of you,” Hamilton growls and Jefferson pauses in typing, waiting for the lecture that never comes.

“Alex,” Lafayette tries, but he doesn’t get a word in before a crashing sound breaks the conversation. Jefferson cranes his neck to see Hamilton’s stapler on the floor, Hamilton’s bristly stance in the doorway.

“Go home,” Hamilton snaps, his voice wavering and as hot as lava. “I’m not going back there--”

“--Alex--”

“--it was his home, too. _Fuck you_. Fuck both of you. I lost him and it was his home, too, and no. Go away. Just get the fuck away from me.”

Hamilton turns in a rage and slams his door and Lafayette and Mulligan wait outside of it, talking quietly with one another, before Lafayette turns and walks toward Jefferson. Jefferson doesn’t even balk at being caught watching, instead arches an eyebrow as the omega leans into his doorway. “You staying late?” Lafayette asks and Jefferson nods. “Watch him for us?” Another small nod and with that the two are gone and the office is quiet again.

Jefferson stays longer, until the light across the hall goes out, but Hamilton never leaves. He waits an extra twenty minutes beyond that and slips across the way lightly, cracks the door open to see Hamilton collapsed in exhaustion in his office chair. With a frown, Jefferson closes back the door, shuts off the main lights in the open area and locks the main door. When he returns in the morning, Hamilton hasn’t moved.

***

Wednesday is coffee day, the mid-week pick-up, and Jefferson stops over at his favorite gas station to get a large vat of mocha along with three donuts which were coincidentally cheaper than buying just the one. Still, even with the errand, he makes it into work at six thirty, Hamilton’s office still dark to the eye.

He works for half an hour, drinks his beverage, eats one of the powdered donuts, and manages to catch up on the string of emails between Washington and Lafayette concerning France. At seven, he leans back in his chair, stretching his neck right and then left before casually looking at the dawn out his window.

The bag on his desk catches his eye, two donuts still uneaten and unwanted. He lifts his hand to rub his chin and then gives a hefty sigh. So what if Hamilton hates him for it? Better to try.

He grabs the bag and walks across the way to where Hamilton’s office is still shut in solace. He cracks the door open and slips inside, still finding the man completely collapsed. Jefferson takes a kleenex from Hamilton’s desk and lays it down by his hand, deposits both donuts on it and then leaves everything else exactly as he found it. And if later, when Hamilton finally emerges, Jefferson notices the powder at the corner of his mouth, well, there’s no pride in this. Just a small amount of relief burning steam off the pressure valve.

***

Thursday Hamilton stays in his office, misses three meetings and a conference call, not that anyone minds. Jefferson hears him from across the way, the shuffle of his papers, the loud smacking of his mouse, the cursing at each ended phone call. No one dares to go inside, no one but Lafayette at lunch time and even that ends in a horrific shouting match.

He stays inside, through the day and then later through the night, past when Jefferson leaves and into the morning when he arrives again and all through Friday.

Which means that when it’s all said and done, it takes until Friday evening for him to cry.

***

At first, Jefferson doesn’t hear it. And when he finally does key in, he pretends not to for so long that he makes himself uncomfortable sitting in his office chair across the open space, listening to the sobs that Hamilton is finally letting wreck his body. He debates his options--the safer course of closing his office door quietly and slipping out the front with the greater risk of advertising his presence. But who is he kidding? His presence is already advertised, already noted. Jefferson never goes home without knowing whether Hamilton has stayed or gone and would Hamilton be really any different? And with his light burning, with the sounds of his keyboard stilled into the otherwise quiet office...no. Hamilton knows.

So Jefferson stands up slowly and walks the long distance across until he’s standing beside the half-open door. Hamilton, inside, sees him, catches his eye through water-logged pupils and sniffs his embarrassment. “Fuck,” he whimpers and lifts his hands, wiping furiously at the corners of his eyes.

“I, um...I’ll go,” Jefferson tries, but Hamilton just snorts like it’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard.

“Why?” he snaps. “Why go now when you can see the whole trainwreck? Step up to the ring. Free admission.”

“Hamilton, I’m--”

“ _Don’t!_ ” Hamilton screeches into the office that echoes its abandonment. He reaches out and flings the door open further, rolls his chair until they’re fully in view of each other. “Don’t you _dare_ say to me you’re sorry. Don’t you give me _condolences_ like it fucking means anything. Don’t talk to me about _grief_ or _pain_ or _time_. I have no time. You don’t fucking _know_.”

“...you’re right,” Jefferson says honestly. “I don’t know. But I...I’ve got nothing else to say. Other than I’m sorry. And I _am_ sorry.”

Hamilton just shakes his head and stares at the wall instead of Jefferson. Jefferson waits, but when Hamilton’s voice turns to cement, when his Adam’s apple swallows so heavily that Jefferson is half sure he’ll choke on it, he decides to give him privacy. He turns to leave, turns away to give Hamilton space if not time, when the words crack from Alex like the sound of a gunshot heavy in the air. “I’m pregnant.”

Thomas stiffens and then immediately loosens his muscles in fear he’ll alarm Hamilton. He turns back and finds Alex with his hand to his face again, fingers pressed to his nose and tears pouring from his eyes like spilled ink. His mouth is open, gasping, and it takes him moments before he stutters out, “I ca...I call...I called him to tell him and he didn’t answer. He didn’t know and we...we…” Hamilton throws his hand down in frustration and balls it into a fist at his side. Jefferson slowly lowers himself down into one of Hamilton’s office chairs and waits until Hamilton physically stills his body and swallows down salt into his lungs. “We used to talk about it. Jokingly. What if it happened? And he laughed...and he told me...why worry? It’d just be a twenty four hour problem. And I...I know that’s what he would have wanted. That’s what I’m supposed to say, right? What would he want? I call...I called...I’ve called the abortion clinic every...day...and I hang up before they even answer. I can’t...Jefferson, I can’t have this baby and I can’t not have this baby and I don’t know what to do and I can’t ask anyone. If I asked Lafayette? Mulligan? They’d tell me to keep it, of course they would. It’s part John. But they’re not the omega who is fighting to stay in office because he’s an omega. I can’t be the pregnant, unwed, widowed _omega_ in _politics_. I can’t do _politics_ and a _baby_. So I have to get rid of it, but I can’t. And I don’t know what to do.”

Hamilton looks at him, wide, dark eyes heavy and red, desperation in the lines of his face, the tangled twists of his hair where his hands have been kneading it into knots. The office is silent except for their breathing and outside Jefferson can just start to hear the traffic rushing at the end of a very long week, with lives very much different than this.

“That’s a sucky decision,” Jefferson tells him slowly, aware that in this he can’t even fathom the choice befor Hamilton. “I can’t decide for you. But…” He frowns. “If there is _anyone_ in all of America that could pull off being the pregnant, unwed, widowed, omega Secretary of the Treasury...it’d be you.” He reaches forward slowly and grasps Hamilton’s shoulder, squeezes. “I mean that. I really do. I _hate_ you sometimes. A lot of the time. So you know it’s true when I say it. You are the most stubborn, bull-headed, mulish, dogged, son of a whore that I have _ever_ met. And if you say you’re going to do it, fuck. There’s no one in the whole entire country that’s going to prove you otherwise. So you just gotta ask yourself, Alex...are you going to do it?”

Hamilton stays silent, staring at Jefferson in earnest until he finally shrugs his hand off and sits up, wipes at his eyes again. “I can’t give it up.” Jefferson isn’t sure if he means the job or the baby until he clarifies. “John. John’s kid? I can’t give it up.”

“...okay, then,” Jefferson says with a nod. “So you don’t give it up. But Hamilton?” Hamilton grunts. “If that’s your decision, if that’s it, you can’t stay here. You’ve got to find someplace to _sleep_ and you’ve got to eat. Before you kill yourself and the baby along with you.”

Hamilton bristles. “I’m not fucking going home. I can’t be there. I can’t sleep in the bed--”

“Then get a hotel,” Jefferson barges in, cutting off his rampage. Hamilton frowns and throws his hands up.

“I don’t even know where my fucking wallet is. I think I lost it Monday. Maybe Sunday. I don’t fucking know.” He reaches to rub at his temple and Jefferson tilts his head as he watches him.

“Well...come on then.” Hamilton frowns, but Jefferson continues. “I’ve got a three bedroom apartment in the city. Only use one room of it.”

“I can’t _stay_ with you,” Hamilton growls. “We hate each other.”

Jefferson waves between their offices. “We’re practically roommates anyway. And hey. Won’t even be pity.” He wrinkles his nose in distaste. “You’re starting to smell and it’s wafting.”

Hamilton stares at him in horror before he suddenly bursts out in a wild laugh that turns quickly into wracked sniffling again. Jefferson ignores it this time, following the glares Hamilton leads his way, and merely stands, waits for him to pick himself up and drag himself to the front door, Jefferson trailing behind.


	2. Your Eyes in Resilience

Hamilton stays at Jefferson’s. Which is odd. Not even so much from the perspective that it’s Alexander Hamilton in his shower, Hamilton who will be occupying his guest room, Hamilton whose clothes he’s throwing in the wash while Jefferson gave him his own with the small grunt of “They’ll be baggy, but they’ll work.”

But more than that, it’s _someone_. Someone in his house, causing noise as he walks around, sounds as the water turns from bathtub into showerhead. When’s the last time a person besides himself has been in his house? Jefferson can’t even remember, which is such an oddity. Surely Madison has been over in not too terribly long--although the last time Jefferson can pinpoint was eight months ago back at Christmas. And it’s not like any of his family, large though it may be, has ever stopped by, not a single one of his nine siblings who have all drifted away from each other in a mutually unspoken pact.

Hell, it’s not like even he occupies these four walls anymore. Not really. When his body is here, his mind is still at the office and his soul and heart, well, he’d be lying if said he knew their location. But this is all sullen thinking, morbid thought. And Jefferson has always been ill-equipped for self introspection.

He starts the laundry, makes sure the guest room has fresh sheets, and just before Hamilton comes out of the bathroom, quickly makes a sandwich and chips that he places on the table. He turns to the sink and begins the dishes that have piled up over the last few days and that’s where Hamilton finds him when he shuffles into the room, his body heavy, the liquid concrete that has been waiting to consume him finally hitting his veins. He sinks into the kitchen chair, his hair a wet, board-straight sop of curtain around him and pulls the plate forward, eats wordlessly, which in itself belies the exhaustion hanging thick in the air.

He doesn’t finish it all, but enough that Jefferson is confident he won’t starve. He grunts a soft goodnight and Jefferson watches from the corner of his eye as he retreats to the bedroom, as the movement stops and the familiar stillness of the house takes hold once more like water rushing in to choke him.

Jefferson finishes the dishes, dries them and places them away. Then he follows his own nighttime routine before slipping into bed, the covers cool and both familiar and unwelcoming. He drifts off and sleeps through the night lightly, hyper-aware of every shadow’s turn and the smallest pitch of any sound.

***

Hamilton is up before Jefferson. This shouldn’t surprise him, but still he had hoped that Hamilton would sleep, would recover from the nightmarish week that had greeted him and have some respite, if only while his eyes were closed.

But instead of that, Jefferson finds him in the kitchen. He is standing at the island counter, leaning up against it and looking down at the smooth white surface and Jefferson pauses in the hallway before he announces his presence.

It’s obvious Hamilton hasn’t seen him. The slope of his shoulders in a kind of desperate remorse betrays his mood and mingles with the frown on his lips, the unkept openness of his hair as it falls across his neck and cheek. Even from here, Jefferson can tell his eyes are dark with grief or worry or quite possibly both and he is something. Quite a picture standing there and Jefferson has a desire to both paint him and to hide away the image so that no one will ever see because this fragile, emotional Hamilton is not fit for the eyes of this world.

He’s small. Of course, Jefferson knows this. Hamilton has never been a large man in height or width, but the last week has made him seem even more compact. Even in the baggy clothes he’s wearing-- _Jefferson’s clothes_ \--he can see Hamilton’s body defined, lean and savage. It will grow. _He’s pregnant,_ some form of panicked voice in the back of Jefferson’s mind shrieks and despite how much he tries now to imagine it, he can’t. He can’t possibly see Hamilton in his mind’s eyes, large with child, and apart from this.

But then, Jefferson notes to himself, he can’t imagine Hamilton as anything but the man before him. And he wonders what that says. What it means.

“You’re going to get big,” Jefferson says and pushes himself away from the wall. Hamilton’s eyes swing to him, his hair soft as it flutters.

Hamilton swallows. “Yeah, I know.”

“Probably be one of those beachball people,” Jefferson continues, trying to lighten the mood. He walks to the fridge, pulls out eggs and milk, sets them aside and goes for a mixing bowl. “Like you’re hiding a basketball under your shirt.”

Hamilton snorts and pushes off from the island, stands and drops his hands loose by his side. “I know _shit_ about babies. And pregnancy.”

Jefferson grunts. “Easiest hard thing you’ll ever do.” He grabs salt and pepper and starts cracking eggs.

“What do _you_ know about it?”

Jefferson shrugs, whisks. “I have a big family. Big families mean pregnant people.”

Hamilton blinks. “You never talk about your family.”

Jefferson’s hand stutters on the whisk. For the briefest flash of a second, he is back there--small and thin like Hamilton in front of him, but so much younger and holding a life in his hands, the small beating of her fragile little heart as it thudded, her eyes as they locked with his like mirror images of each other that he’ll never forget. But no. That was years ago. What did an eight-year-old know? What does he know now? “I don’t,” he says simply and pours the egg mixture into a pan that sits on the stove with a little oil.

“...you know about...kids and shit?”

Jefferson snorts and nods.

“Pregnancy?”

Another nod.

“Then what do I do?”

Jefferson shrugs and turns up the heat. “Momma always said three things get you by. You take care of yourself, you read, and you don’t miss a doctor’s appointment.”

“Oh, is that what Momma said?”

“Had ten kids.” Jefferson shrugs again. “Worth it to listen to her.”

Hamilton sighs and looks off into the living room. “Shouldn’t be too hard.”

“Yeah,” Jefferson swirls the pan and cuts up the eggs as they begin to cook. “Except for that first bit. You’re pretty shit at that.”

Hamilton grunts. “I can take care of myself.”

“ _Can_ and _are doing_ are separate things.”

“What does that mean?”

“Means you don’t eat enough.”

“I eat--”

“At least three meals a day? Not on your life,” Jefferson says with a little chuckle. “But you’ll eat breakfast today. Unless you’re ethically opposed to scrambled eggs.”

Hamilton lifts his nose and walks over, starts hunting in the cabinets. “I am if they don’t have _toast_ with them.”

Jefferson watches him out of the corner of his eye for a moment before saying, “Top right cabinet.” Hamilton grimaces, but slides down and Jefferson watches him as he stretches to pull the loaf out, catches a glimpse of his tan stomach flat and unaffected. “So you don’t know anything?”

“Fuck,” Hamilton says and untwists the tie on the bread, takes two slices and pops them into the toaster. “Nothing. Never thought in a _million_ years I would have a kid.”

Jefferson grunts in response. “Not even as a possibility? ‘One day when I settle down’?”

Hamilton frowns and fidgets with the plastic that surrounds the bread. “John and I _were_ settled down. So no. Not even as a possibility.”

Jefferson pauses and mentally kicks himself. He debates whether or not Hamilton wants to hear an apology when Hamilton’s phone rings. He picks it up and looks at it and his face goes pale, his expression wax. He tosses it on the counter beside Jefferson. “I can’t,” he says, voice tight and before Jefferson can react, he has stalked away back into the guest room, the door shut tight.

Jefferson looks at the caller ID. Lafayette. With a frown, he slides it to answer and listens as the Frenchman begins. “Oh, mon ami, I am _so sorry,_ but you know I have to say--”

“It’s Jefferson,” Thomas cuts in. “Hamilton...he’s not coming to the phone right now.”

“Oh!” Lafayette says with surprise. “Uh, how did you…?”

“He came home with me last night.”

“Oh, thank God. This means he slept, yes?”

“Yeah,” Jefferson grunts and dishes the cooked eggs onto a plate. “Slept _and_ ate. What can I do for you?”

“I wouldn’t bother him, you know I wouldn’t. I want him to heal. I want him to take care of himself. But...you’ll make sure he makes it today?”

Jefferson frowns and adds Hamilton’s toast to the plate. “Makes it to what?”

Lafayette pauses. “...you know.”

Jefferson puts his free hand on the counter and sighs to the ceiling. “No, Lafayette, I don’t know. What?”

“The service,” Lafayette drawls with meaning and when Jefferson doesn’t react, he says again, “the service? Laurens’...Laurens’ service. His funeral.”

Jefferson feels the blood drain from his face. “Today?”

“Oui. I know it is soon, mon ami, but his family--”

“--right. Um...when?”

“Noon.”

“Fuck.” Jefferson checks the clock ticking away to ten. “I, um...yes. Yeah, I’ll get him there.”

Lafayette breathes out a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Thomas. Really, I mean that. Thank you.” He states the address and hangs up. Jefferson stares at the phone for a minute to collect himself before he takes the plate and a glass of orange juice to the guest room.

They don’t speak of it.

***

Jefferson parallel parks across the street from the graveyard and kills the engine. In the passenger seat, Hamilton looks off to the right, away from the long stretch of carefully manicured grass punctured by the rise of gray and black and white marbled stones. “You sure you don’t want me to take you to the church--”

“Fuck the church,” Hamilton cuts in and Jefferson is in awe of his voice, the way it sounds like steel somehow bending and reverberating in a heavy wind. “John wasn’t religious. They just put him there so they can fucking make themselves feel better.”

“Do you want to see him?”

“ _No_ ,” Hamilton growls. “I remember what he looked like. I don’t want to see...it’s not him anymore. I’m not going to fucking cry over dry bones with some flesh still on it.”

“Okay,” Jefferson agrees. It’s not his place to push Hamilton and even if it _was_ , even if they were something like friends, something to one another in the dull spinning of their lives, he wouldn’t. He doesn’t find it to be weakness, Hamilton’s choice. Doesn’t find it to be unhealthy. Sometimes you don’t look. Sometimes you bury and you hold that image in your mind, the image of life and what should be remembered, and you don’t cut it out with the way bodies float in stillness. Silence.

Hamilton takes his hair out from the ponytail he tossed up in the bathroom before they left, runs his hand through his hair and sighs out his frustration. The black suit is heavy on his shoulders, big. It’s Jefferson’s after all and Thomas had offered to drop him by his house to change, but he is solid in this, a thousand-year-old tree with ground-in roots. He won’t ever go home. Jefferson believes him.

“Tell me something,” Hamilton begs of him. “I know you don’t...you didn’t...I know you weren’t friends, but tell me something. About him. Something happy.”

Jefferson thinks back to what he knows of Laurens--his boisterous, bright laugh, his dedication, his loyalty. He had only known Laurens as the man _over there_. Had observed him from distances like they were two parts of a Venn diagram that never intersected and the connecting film had always been a third person, someone they both knew--Lafayette or Washington or Mulligan or...Hamilton. But even with that, even with the knowledge that they spent their lives circling and never touching, Jefferson knows one thing to be certain. One thing that is more true and more solid than Hamilton sitting in his car now. “He loved you.”

Hamilton nods fiercely and wipes at his eyes. “Yeah, he did.”

“You have to go do this for him.”

“I know.”

“It’s stupid, but you have to.”

“I know.”

“He would think it was fucking stupid.”

Hamilton gives a weak laugh and sniffs loudly. “I know.” 

A car passes by slowly. Jefferson turns to look, sees it’s the hearse. The other cars follow in exact procession. “Thank you,” Hamilton whispers. Jefferson turns back.

“For what?”

“For…” The cars pass, slow moving tires that continue and then park farther down, releasing their occupants that file from them like black ants lining up the sidewalk. “For not telling me to go say goodbye.”

“You don’t ever say goodbye.”

“No,” Hamilton whispers and then swallows, finally turns his eyes to the view of the graveyard punctured only by the cars that keep passing. “You don’t.” He pauses and then opens his door, steps out of the car. Jefferson watches as he smoothes the suit over himself, slides across the street and moves to join the crowd that is gathering.

Lafayette and Mulligan find him instantly and they each stand by his side. An older man--Laurens’ father, Jefferson had met him once--approaches and Hamilton flinches even as Lafayette relaxes. The alpha comfort, Jefferson assumes. Hamilton starts walking away and Jefferson watches him until he can’t tell detail anymore, even if he never loses Hamilton to the crowd. All of the others in black, all the others in mourning, and even though Hamilton looks like them, even though he bows his head with them, he _isn’t_ them and Jefferson wonders how much of a burden it must be, to keep standing in the midst when you know how different you are, when you used to have someone just as different who stood just as high but will never be on his feet again, will never again stand above the earth.

***

It doesn’t take long. Funerals never do and soon the crowd has turned and is filing back to the road. Hamilton leads the pack with his head bowed and his hands in his pockets and he only looks up when he gets to the street and gives it a quick scan, doing a double-take when he sees Jefferson’s car. He frowns, but crosses the road, drops into the passenger’s seat. “You’re still here.”

Jefferson shrugs. “Metro’s a bitch to get back to my place.”

Hamilton gives him a curious look. “...right. Um…”

“Hamilton!” Even through the glass, Jefferson hears the shout and turns. It’s someone who he doesn’t know across the street, but Hamilton goes pale and slaps Jefferson’s shoulder. “Get me out of here. I’m done talking to his family, just...go.”

Jefferson gives a nod and starts up the car, pulls it out before the guy gets to them. They have to go slow through the throng of people crossing to cars, but they make it out without any of them grabbing Hamilton again and once the car crests a hill and becomes clear of the graveyard, Hamilton visibly relaxes in relief. “No offense, but I fucking _hate_ your kind. Alphas. It’s so condescending to, like, _treat_ you like that. Like ‘oh, all I have to do is send you a little comfort with my aura and--’ fuck, that’s not how it works. I fucking hate how you guys use your chemicals like that. ‘Here, feel my power.’ ‘Here, feel my condolences.’ ‘Here, feel my fucking--’”

“Do I do that?” Jefferson asks, taking a left turn easy.

“In every fucking cabinet meeting.”

Jefferson laughs, but shakes his head. “No, I meant...about this.”

Hamilton frowns. “No. If you did, I wouldn’t have got back in the car with you.”

“Good,” Jefferson says. “It’s bullshit. They don’t know what you’re going through.”

Hamilton gives him a little up-and-down. “And you do?”

Jefferson shakes his head. “Never said that.”

Hamilton grunts and looks out the windshield, stares at the city as Jefferson meanders his car. “Where are you going? Your apartment is--”

“It’s Saturday,” Jefferson says easily, takes another turn. Hamilton frowns so Jefferson gives him a tiny smile when he rolls to a stop at a light. “Buffalo Wild Wings has half off appetizers on Saturdays.”

“You’re taking me to...Buffalo Wild Wings.”

Jefferson shrugs. “You’ll eat. I’ll eat. And we won’t fucking talk about funerals.”

Hamilton meets his eyes, dark pools of intellect scrutinizing him. But then he gives a nod, lets his lips curve up just slightly as he says, “Sounds fan-fucking-tastic to me.”


	3. How Sensational Your Offering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter, but there's some development here! ;) And longer ones coming on Friday and next week!

Hamilton eats, Jefferson eats, and they return to the familiar subject of politics, even though it’s clear neither one of them has the bite in them today. Still, it serves its purpose and they float away from Laurens, from the graveyard with its people, the demands left to be placed on the living. And every second Jefferson doesn’t bring it up, every moment where Hamilton can focus on the chicken wings in front of him and the latest large-scale agriculture bill, relaxes his shoulders just a bit, ticks them down further into something close to natural.

When Hamilton leans back in his chair and rubs exhaustedly at his eyes, Jefferson lets the breath he was holding go. He pays for them both on the pretense that Hamilton doesn’t have his wallet anyway, but still agrees to Hamilton’s demand to pay him back in the future.

He takes them home and they don’t talk much. Hamilton, in fact, is strangely quiet throughout the day. Although he stays in the living room with Jefferson for a bit, he retreats to his room by early evening and spends it alone. Jefferson doesn’t bother him.

He cooks dinner when it gets later and eats his own share, decides to text Hamilton that there is food if he wants it, and retires to his study to catch up on work he had promised himself he would complete over the weekend. And if he hears Hamilton open the fridge later, well, he won’t pride himself on it.

And so the night slips on. And he eventually sleeps, dreaming of things like rough gravestones, dripping water, and the time he ran into Hamilton and Laurens at Starbucks and could barely understand them through all their giggling.

***

In the morning when Jefferson wakes, Hamilton is already up and dressed in his clothes from Friday. He looks markedly better than he had then--his hair now pulled at the back of his head and shining in the sun, his eyes dry and bright, his spine tall as it stretches out his thin form. “Good, you’re awake,” he clips.

Jefferson raises his eyebrow and lifts his hand to his uncontrolled hair, scratches at his scalp. “Sure.” He leans in the doorway between the hallway and the living room.

“Good,” Hamilton repeats and smoothes his palms over the sides of his pants. “I, uh...wanted to say goodbye.”

“Goodbye?”

Hamilton grunts and won’t look at him for a second, instead darting his eyes to the floor, to the walls, to the furniture before finally bringing them to bear on Jefferson’s own. Cold and closed, they reflect something for the briefest of seconds before he continues. “I, um, am going...home.”

“Home?” Jefferson asks, stunned.

“Not home,” Hamilton says with a frown and walks closer to Jefferson while he talks. “My _new_ home. Lafayette found my wallet last night and I rented a new place uptown. I...It’ll be fine. He’s bringing my stuff and I told him to just burn...the rest. But he won’t.”

Jefferson shrugs. “Might be a good thing.”

“He thinks I’ll want it someday.” Hamilton’s eyes flash dark brick, like ancient buildings that refuse to fall. “I won’t.”

Jefferson waves vaguely at him. “The baby might.”

Hamilton blinks, like he hadn’t considered this, but recovers quickly. “In any rate, I’m out of your hair. So...goodbye.”

Jefferson nods. “Yeah, um...goodbye.”

“And, um...thanks.”

Jefferson waits for Hamilton to continue, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t go, either, just stands there awkwardly. “...for?” Jefferson prompts him.

“You’re the only one who...well, nevermind. It’s stupid, anyway, and you know how I feel about stupid things.”

“Okay,” Jefferson says simply. “You’re welcome. For being the only one who…”

Hamilton gives him the tiniest of sarcastic smiles, a small hint that he is still under there, still boiling even after everything. “The only one who treated me like I was still me. In other words, thanks for being a dick.”

Jefferson laughs, but shakes his head. “Don’t think dicks cook you breakfast or drive you around the whole fucking city.”

“And yet there you go,” Hamilton says with a grunt and a smile, “being a dick about it.”

Jefferson chuckles again. “Well, you _are_ welcome. Anytime I can show my true self, I am more than happy to oblige you.”

Hamilton takes a step forward into Jefferson’s personal space. “Right. Just giving you the opportunity, I guess. But still...I mean it. Thanks.”

And then he does the damndest thing. Standing there in front of Jefferson, who is still in his sleep clothes, his hair in a billion directions, his eyes still heavy, and nothing about him at all that demands any sort of respect. He lowers his eyes and then he lowers his chin, his entire head even to the shoulders and he bows.

Jefferson feels it instantly, the wash of submission and vulnerability and _trust_ that pours off of Hamilton and his nose fills with his scent, with the act of Hamilton’s bow and the openness he has let Jefferson see even for a second and before Jefferson can react at all in even the slightest of ways to the cloying hot nature of his aura--spice and guava, heavy ink and determination--Hamilton rises again.

Jefferson blinks.

“I don’t do that,” Hamilton tells him like he has to, like it’s not _obvious_ that Hamilton never bows for an alpha on his life, that there are probably fewer people that have witnessed it than he has fingers on his hands. “And that’s it. That’s...that’s all I’m going to give you. I don’t owe you any favors in the future, I’m not going to be nice to you later, I’m not going to sign any of your damn bills or agree with you that pumping money into agriculture and away from industry is a _good_ thing. You get nothing from me. But that. And...and me telling you that it’s sincere.”

“I know,” Jefferson whispers slowly and they stay there, staring at each other with weight so heavy in the air it suffocates. “...you sure?” Jefferson says after a moment. “I mean, I make some pretty damn good bills and even you have to agree that the farmers are what make up this country’s--”

Hamilton cuts him off with a snort and lifts his hand to flip him off. “Fuck off, Thomas,” he growls and then steps back, turns on his heel. “And _goodbye_. Think about getting a decorator in here, would you? This place is fucking _morose_.”


	4. The Command in Your Voice

Hamilton is an absolute, goddamn _terror_.

The next week, he most decidedly _doesn’t_ stay in his office and it is quite evident in the loud braying of his voice and the frantic smacking of his hands that he is eating and sleeping well. In short, he stores up all his energy like some form of depraved firecracker and then unleashes it like a hurricane in every committee meeting that he wedges his way into.

Jefferson can’t get rid of the little fucker. He shows up in meetings where he’s uninvited, he bombards the break room with quick snips of judgement that the people aren’t _working_ , and he even forces his way into Jefferson’s office every goddamn time Jefferson is even one second late to perform a task. He’s irritating, insufferable, _monstrous_ , and this is probably why Washington had to close the entire office down at 3 PM on Wednesday after the rather long and, to be honest, _shrill_ shouting match where the Jefferson and Hamilton finally had it out. And, if when Jefferson finally stomps back to his office and slams the door shut in Hamilton’s face, he finds that he has mostly lost his voice, well, he’s not sorry for it. The douchecanoe deserved every verbal lick.

Still, though, another side of Jefferson cannot help but be observant to Hamilton’s situation, which makes the work week even that much more frustrating. Lafayette and Mulligan still come by, moving around Hamilton like he’s an ancient plate about to crack, which only serves to change Hamilton from the china into the bull and roar at them like wind snapping reeds. Jefferson is frankly impressed that the two friends withstand it and, even more, that they keep coming back. But Jefferson guesses they have got used to Hamilton’s rather unique ways of being.

In all the conversations, though, Hamilton hasn’t mentioned his pregnancy once and he is so tight-lipped about his condition, Jefferson wonders if he’s trying to forget about it. Which he would think would make Hamilton more content. But instead, Jefferson watches him regress backwards at the end of the week when he finds Hamilton in his office after hours. “Go away,” Jefferson snaps at him from across the hall. “You like your new apartment. _Go back to it_.”

“Fuck you,” Hamilton growls through the roughly ten foot difference. Jefferson rolls his chair back enough so that he can see the vague shape of Hamilton through the pebble glass.

“Whatever you're working on,” Jefferson tells him in as snotty of a tone as he can make his own voice, “roll it up and then store it up your ass on your way out the door.”

“I have work to do!”

“So do I!”

“Then do it and stop pestering the fuck out of me!”

“I can’t think with your RAGE BREATHING.”

Jefferson listens to a wild huff and then a clatter of furniture as Hamilton shoves away from the desk. He storms across the hall and Jefferson holds his gaze steadily until Hamilton arrives at his office and clings to the doorframe as he leans down, all teeth and temper in Jefferson’s face. “You’re a petty little _fuck_ of a man. _You_ go home.”

Jefferson tilts his chin downwards and stares Hamilton down. “I’m _working_.”

“So am I.”

“On nothing important, I’m sure.”

“Look, you fuck-stick. I had a meeting this evening that got cancelled and so with my free time, I would _love_ to finish the draft of this fucking omega bill. _If you don’t mind_.”

Jefferson glares. “What meeting?”

“ _That_ has nothing to do with you.”

Jefferson snorts. “Bullshit. It _does_ have to do with me. Why do you have a meeting after hours?” He rolls back to his computer and keys up his calendar, searching for Hamilton’s on the office’s joint sharing system. “What could you be doing outside of work? Is it a _secret_ meeting? Are you and your buddies thinking of ways to undermine the Secretary of State? Is it _extortion_? Is it _illegal_?”

Jefferson clicks Hamilton’s calendar and it pulls up, but not before Hamilton smacks his hand over the screen. “Fuck you, Thomas. You don’t know all of my business.”

“But your business,” Jefferson reminds him, “is the Treasury's business and the _Treasury's_ business is the business of America and _America’s_ business is _my_ business.” He pries Hamilton’s hands from his screen, which is easier said than done because they apparently have developed some form of glue specific to sticking on monitor screens. But he finally smacks them away and looks to see the little red box labeled “Doctor’s Appointment.” Hamilton crosses his arms and sneers. Jefferson frowns.

“Doctor’s--”

“You’re a dick,” Hamilton spits at him like this is new information to either of them.

Jefferson gives him a patented withering glare. “Why didn’t you just _say_ so?”

“Because I’m not in the mood to just flaunt every-fucking-thing I do to you, Jefferson. _That’s_ why.”

Thomas grumbles, but looks back at the box. “Who cancels a doctor's appointment?”

“Weak-minded fucks, apparently.” Hamilton grumbles and tightens his arms over his chest. He stares at Jefferson’s wall in silence, biting his lip.

“You cancelled it?”

“No,” Hamilton says with a sharp shake of his head. He shuffles his feet.

“They cancelled it?”

Hamilton grunts.

“Why would the doctor canc--”

“They didn’t believe me,” Hamilton cuts in. “When I told them...he was dead. They said they won’t see an omega without the alpha and they didn’t believe that…” He trails off, still staring stonily at the wall. Jefferson swallows and feels a wave of embarrassment and shame hit his gut. He _is_ a dick.

“That’s...bullshit.”

“Yeah,” Hamilton clips. “It is.”

“Could you...show them proof?”

Hamilton looks at him wide-eyed like Jefferson just asked the man to stick his hand in a jar of spiders. “ _No_. I’m not...I’m not going and getting his...the...fucking _death_ certificate just so they can...be happy with their fucking prejudice. It’s..it’s disrespectful.” He frowns. “And I don’t want to see it.”

Jefferson nods slowly and the room goes tight and still. He is overly aware of how quiet the office is without anyone else in the building and now that the two of them have stopped yelling like their lives depend on it. Outside, the trees are still, untouched by any wind. Hamilton stays standing, his eyes on the wall like he can take it apart with the power of his will. His arms are rigid across his body and his nails are digging into skin. Jefferson swallows, with nothing to say.

But Hamilton, unsurprisingly, fills the silence. “Go with me.”

Jefferson blinks.

Beside him, Hamilton straightens up, extending his spine until it grows taut like a rope pulled from both ends. “These fucking fuckers, they won’t let me in the door without one of you shitters, so might as well give them what they want.”

“You could ask--”

“Who? Washington? Madison? _Adams_?” Hamilton scoffs and smacks his foot into the door-stopper. “No, fucking thank you. I’m not asking my boss or men who would _pity_ me the whole goddamn time.”

“Well,” Jefferson reminds him like he’s forgot the last thirty seconds. “You’re asking me.”

“Yeah,” Hamilton concedes. “And you’re an asshole and a dick and most probably an actual whore, but...well...you don’t look at me like that. So I guess,” he wrinkles his nose, “you’ll do.”

Jefferson rolls his eyes. “And what do I get for it?”

Hamilton raises an eyebrow and tilts his head in arrogance and mockery, but something shines in his eyes quick like a flash of sunshine amidst afternoon showers. “You’re going to _extort_ me?”

“Oh, shut up,” Jefferson clips and stands, sticks his hands in his pockets. “You don’t want to owe me any favors and we both know it. So, hey, quid pro quo now and we forget about it later.”

Hamilton’s eyes narrow and he gives Jefferson an up and down, but follows it up with a quick nod. “You come with me, but you stay out of the way. You don’t say anything, you don’t touch anything, you don’t go on and on to the nurse about how happy you are that I’m about to give you a ‘wee little one’ or whatever ‘endearing’ term you alphas like to make up. And I’ll sign your agriculture bill.”

“That’s _it_?”

Hamilton’s eyes narrow into dark pools of rage, but Jefferson just smirks and gives a little shrug. “I _guess_ ,” he says, throwing Hamilton’s words back in his face, “that’ll have to do.”

***

The appointment really has been cancelled and there is no use trying to get in that night, so Hamilton reschedules and they wait until the start of the next week. Jefferson takes Monday off under the guise of a vacation day and Hamilton surprises everyone with bolting out the door at five o’clock on the dot, striding his way down the sidewalk to where Jefferson is watching him in his car from a block up. It’s all very cloak-and-dagger, very spy and suspicious, but Hamilton refuses to let anyone in on the fact of his situation--whether that’s his pregnancy or his ill-conceived truce with the Secretary of State, Jefferson doesn’t know.

Either way, Jefferson finds himself pulling away from the governmental building on his way to the family practice side of the medical park, wondering just where his life took this turn. Hamilton is silent and bitter, keeping a frown on his face the entire time and never letting his hands rest from where they fidget. He looks out the window, bites his nails, taps on the side of the door, pulls at his seat belt, runs a hand through his hair--anything he can do to keep moving. Jefferson doesn’t comment, just keeps his hands on the steering wheel and his eyes alert to the shifting traffic.

They make it there early and Hamilton cusses angrily.

Jefferson gets out of the car and takes his time leisurely walking to the door. Hamilton also takes his time, only it’s with remaining _in_ the vehicle, his arms folded across his chest and his teeth worrying at his lip. An omega woman crosses in front of Jefferson and gives him a judgemental up and down. “In my day, we got the door opened for us,” she mutters at him with a seething glare.

Jefferson rolls his eyes and turns back to the car, saunters back to it. He raps his knuckles against the glass of the passenger door and Hamilton sighs heavily--Jefferson can hear him even through the metal--and smacks the door open into Jefferson’s side, climbing out and slamming it shut. “Let’s go,” he mutters and Jefferson waits until he stalks away before he follows him in.

The man at the counter takes Hamilton’s name and looks him up in the system, but even though he acknowledges that the appointment is indeed on the books, he doesn’t look Hamilton in the eye and barely pays him any mind at all as he gathers paperwork. Hamilton frowns and taps his bitten fingernails on the smooth counter. “Hurry it up, will you?” he growls, but the man rewards him with silence.

“You’re all checked in. You’ll need to fill these out, though.” He sets the papers down on the counter in front of Jefferson and Jefferson blinks. He takes a quick look at it--agreements of confidentiality, medical history, basic information on pregnancy--and slowly slides it Hamilton's way. Halfway to its destination, the desk worker smacks his hand on the form to stop its movement. “I’m sorry, sir, but _you’ll_ have to fill these out,” he continues to address Jefferson. “It’s policy.”

“Policy, my fucking ass,” Hamilton snaps and rips the paper out from under him with such vigor the man flinches.

“Sir--”

But Hamilton has already turned away and strided to the back of the waiting room seats, hunched over the forms. Jefferson gives the man a little nod and follows him, hovers around not too close, but not too far away until Hamilton is done. In the end, the worker won’t take the forms unless Jefferson looks over them, so he does with as little care and as much boredom as he can muster in his eyes.

They go back to the chairs. Jefferson sits next to him and grunts when Hamilton says, “We need to push the omega bill through faster.”

It’s half an hour before the nurse comes out and when she announces Hamilton’s name, he shoots up quicker than a falling star, pushing his way past the doors that separate those held from those seen. Jefferson is slower, but no less resolute, and when the nurse asks quietly if Jefferson would like to discuss Hamilton’s anxiety with the doctor as well, Jefferson all but sends the poor beta into a curled fetal position with the glare he emits.

“Just treat him,” he snaps. “Whatever he wants.”

They are lead to a standard, clinical room and the girl works in silence. She takes Hamilton’s temperature, blood pressure, his weight and height, she asks standard questions and when Hamilton answers them, her only hesitation is a brief pause before she writes on his chart. When she is done with the questionnaire, she puts on gloves and pulls a wrapped needle from the cabinet, opens it and takes Hamilton’s blood to run an official pregnancy test. Hamilton lets her work with only the barest frown.

She finished the bloodwork and stands, nods at both of them with a slight blush. “The doctor will be right in,” she mutters as she leaves.

Jefferson watches the door as it slowly clicks shut and then moves his eyes to Hamilton at the rustle of movement--slouched down in his seat, left foot up to rest on his right knee, phone in his hand as he begins scrolling. Clearly not in the mood for conversation, not that Jefferson has anything to say. Places like this make him...well, he doesn’t like to think of that. It’s all behind him now, the past washed away, if not clean, and who came with her? Not him. Why would he? Eight years old and besides everything else piled up...but not that. He doesn’t want to think of it, even if it’s on his peripheral vision like red, angry lines descending in.

This. Think of this. Hamilton in front of him, still on his phone. His hair tied up, but one strand loose--like it tends to be--falling across his eyes. Does he notice it or simply look through it? Did Laurens ever lift his hand, push it back? Did they smile at one another? When Hamilton notices the strand, does he think of him? Or did it have nothing to do with him at all? Was it his neck or his lips that Laurens touched? What does Hamilton see in the mirror that makes him cringe?

Hamilton pauses now, looks up at him when he finally notices Jefferson’s stare. For a moment, they collide, each in their own world suddenly shocked into this one. The florescent light overhead shines and the tile is bright. The little chart above Hamilton’s head depicting trimesters is laughable.

Jefferson looks away. There is nothing there that Hamilton could see and understand.

The door opens and a man walks in--thin and small with a bit too much of an elitist tilt to his nose. “Ah,” he says, one eye on Hamilton’s chart, the other on Jefferson as he extends a hand out, “Dr. Seabury.”

Jefferson frowns and takes his hand. “Jefferson.”

“Well, Mr. Jefferson, congratulations are in order! Your omega is, indeed, pregnant.”

Jefferson rolls his eyes to Hamilton and watches as he puts his foot down from his knee, sits up straighter. Neither man returns Seabury’s distasteful smile. The doctor flicks his eyes between the two of them and then mutters, “oh,” to himself before looking down at the chart once more. “Well, we can certainly remove it if it’s not a happy occasion.”

“I’ve decided to keep it,” Hamilton clips out, his words dripping with poison.

Seabury ignores him and continues standing with his back to Hamilton, facing Jefferson on the other side of the room. “Of course, things like this happen. Would you like me to schedule the operation?”

“I said I’m--”

“We can certainly make sure the law is enforced if you need help with him. This is your decision, Mr. Jefferson, after all and we--”

“He’s keeping it,” Jefferson tells Seabury. “He says he wants to keep it. He’s keeping it.”

Seabury frowns, but recovers quickly back into his plastic smile. “Well, then, congratulations, I say again!” He puts the chart in its slot by the door and approaches Hamilton, gives him a quick examination and refuses to meet his eyes. Every detail he directs toward Jefferson--comments that Hamilton should put on a bit more weight, directions to the appropriate vitamins and supplements, warnings of what to do and what not to do. In the end, he orders more lab work and Hamilton suffers through all of it with more reservation than Jefferson had thought he would give. And Jefferson, well, he doesn’t talk except when he has to, when it’s clear that Seabury won’t continue without consent or acknowledgement.

Soon, though, the exam is complete and Seabury declares him healthy at about five weeks. They take the prescriptions and directions and Seabury bids Jefferson a good day without any thought to Hamilton, directing them to the door. And Jefferson is sure that it is over.

But Hamilton, clearly, is not. He turns on his heel and blocks the door from Seabury’s exit, who stumbles back a bit from where he was in forward motion to follow them out the door. “Dr. Sea--”

“Mr. Jefferson, please, would you--”

“Don’t talk to him,” Hamilton growls. “You talk to me.”

Seabury’s eyes widen and he scoffs. “I beg your--”

“--I’m not his subordinate and I’m definitely not his fucking pet, so if you have something to say about me, you can say it to me.” Seabury gathers breath, but Hamilton blows him over like a reed in a tornado. “In fact, he’s not even my goddamn alpha. Because my goddamn alpha is _dead_. Not that you or your fucking _shitty_ staff ever thought to believe me.”

Seabury goes red in anger. “Then, sir, I am going to have to ask you to _leave_ and you will be hearing from--”

“No one,” Hamilton cuts him off. “I’m going to be hearing from _no one_ and you are going to be giving me this visit free and in fact, I think you’re going to be giving me _all_ my appointments free and I dare say I don’t think I’m going to want any doctor but _you_ just so I can sit here and watch how pissed off that makes you.”

Seabury narrows his eyes. “I will mostly certainly not be talked to this way by an omega.”

“Oh, but you will,” Hamilton declares. “Because this omega is the Secretary of the Treasury or haven’t you heard the name Alexander Hamilton? Stupid not to put two and two together. Because I am _sure_ a little clinic like this has got to have some rather complicated finances and it would be such a shame if something were to turn up in an audit.” Hamilton lets a small little smirk go. “It could damn well ruin reputations. And, besides, I’ve heard that these financial investigations can get rather costly and time consuming, you know? Best not to poke the bear.”

“This is outrage!” Seabury snaps. “Unethical and--”

“You want to play dirty,” Hamilton says and draws himself up to his full height. “I can play dirty. But you want to play nice?” He shrugs. “I’ll play nice. After all, I do need about eight months of medical care.”

Seabury grits his jaw and swallows, but doesn’t move to speak again.

“Good,” Hamilton says with a head tilt. “Then we understand each other. And I’ll never have to bring an alpha in here again just to prove a point, will I?” Seabury is silent. “Will I?”

“No.”

“Or be treated with disrespect at the counter?”

“No.”

“And when I see you, you’ll tell me _exactly_ what is going on and won’t miss anything will you?”

“I will.”

“And my decisions are my own, aren’t they?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Hamilton spins on his heel to leave and calls back as he nears the door. “And you’re a goddamn cocksuck, for what it’s worth.”


	5. The Fire of Your Friend

The next morning, Jefferson is at work bright and early, sorting through his emails and phone calls to get a grasp on the day before the weekly staff meeting begins at 8:30. Hamilton follows his lead,  arriving around 7:15 himself, just a few minutes after Jefferson. They leave each other alone. There’s nothing really to say.

Jefferson is relieved that Hamilton put Seabury in his place, respectful of Hamilton’s decisions and his righteous demands. And he’s glad that the got to see the look on Seabury’s face, too, when he realized what a predicament he had put himself into.

But aside from that, well, Jefferson is smart enough to know that commenting on it-- _good job, Hamilton!_ \--is patronizing. Why compliment Hamilton for doing something he shouldn’t have had to do? And, also, well, Jefferson isn’t going to say that he’s happy with Hamilton’s actions. To say he was would imply that Jefferson thought Hamilton _should_ have done them, and Jefferson wishes, the same as Hamilton, that no omega needs to resort to that kind of conflict just to get something done. He’s always been a proponent of the omega bill and this just makes it that much more dire.

They have to get this thing passed. And soon. But Jefferson is relieved that in the meantime, no one is going to be putting Hamilton down. He can take care of himself. Jefferson has always known this, but it was nice to see it, nice to witness the storm and watching it blow Seabury over.

Not that he’d say that to Hamilton. Of course not. So he leaves him alone. Lets him work. And they don’t interact until the office meeting.

Unlike cabinet meetings, everyone is in attendance, including their office workers and Lafayette wearing his French ambassador pin. They use the large conference room and gather around the table for the weekly meeting, most still nursing coffee and trying to wake up for the day. Jefferson sits in his normal spot at the end of the conference table with only Madison between him and Hamilton and opens his padfolio in case Washington says something of any importance.

But before Washington can call the meeting to order, Hamilton has risen from his seat to the surprise of everyone. Chairs turn and conversations still and the room swings their attention to him. In the perfect amount of space between _oh, Hamilton is going to say something_ and _someone should ask him what he’s doing_ , he speaks. “I’m pregnant.”

Everything slows. Washington as the head of the table tenses and goes completely still, like if he doesn’t move the incident won’t happen. Burr, to Hamilton’s right, takes in a sharp breath. Madison blinks rapidly. Lafayette, up near Washington, narrows his eyes. And Jefferson, well, he needs to do something so as to look like this is a shock for him, too, so he just lifts his hand and rubs his jawline, directing his gaze toward the table.

“Yes,” Hamilton answers the unspoken question, “Laurens is the father. And yes, I’m having it. And no, I’m not leaving politics. I plan to have as short of a leave as possible. But we still need to move this damn bill through _quickly_ because it goes without saying that I’m invested in having it implemented as soon as possible. So I expect everyone to be on their game this week and no one drag their feet on this thing. Let’s get it moving.” He pauses and then frowns. “That’s all.”

Hamilton drops down into his seat, but Washington doesn’t immediately take the discussion over. In fact, everyone remains staring at the foot of the table for several more minutes, until Lafayette, with a dangerous kind of sharpness, clears his throat. “You’re pregnant?” he repeats.

Hamilton grunts. “Yeah.”

“And you didn’t…” Lafayette swallows again and Jefferson notes the tightness of his shoulders, his taut jawline. “You didn’t feel the need to _tell me_?”

“I’m telling you now,” Hamilton scoffs.

Lafayette narrows his eyes. “You’re telling me now.”

In an explosion of movement, Lafayette stands up from his chair, smacking the rolling thing back into the wall. Without any care for it, he stomps toward the door and flings it open, barging through it and then slamming it so hard it echoes into the otherwise silent room. Secretaries and politicians alike flinch and it’s then that Washington stands.

“Okay, folks,” he declares, putting his hands flat on the conference table. “I believe we’ll cancel the meeting for this morning. Hamilton? It would have been nice if you had given me a little warning about this. See me in my office this afternoon so that we can talk details. Everyone else, let’s go. Back to work. And let’s keep the office talk to a minimum.” He lowers his voice and mutters, “Before I have to call in Human Resources to talk about office climate.”

With that, he leaves himself, striding through the door and following, strangely, the same path as Lafayette. Jefferson watches them go and waits until the rest of the room has filed out before he turns to Hamilton, the lone occupant. “Could have presented that better.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Hamilton sneers. “I didn’t want to have to…”

“I get it,” Jefferson tells him. “Like a bandaid.” He flips his padfolio closed and stands. “But that was a pretty sticky bandaid, Hamilton. And the wound is still bleeding.”

***

The office is quiet for the rest of the day and if there is gossip floating about--and Jefferson is sure that somewhere there has to be--it must be electronic and the other workers must be leaving him out of it. And while he doesn’t know exactly what it means that none of them want to whisper about Hamilton’s condition with him, he’ll be grateful for it. He gets to catch up on work and suffer through the day relatively left alone.

Left alone, that is, until about three o’clock when a pissed off Frenchman struts into his space and then takes it upon himself to shut the door and lock it. He turns to Jefferson, arms crossed over his chest, and leans back against the pebbled glass. “We need to talk,” he announces as if Jefferson hadn’t gotten that impression from his thin lips and overall angry frame.

Jefferson stops his typing and turns his chair to Lafayette, threading his hands together on his lap. “Go on.”

“You knew,” Lafayette spits. “And don’t tell me otherwise. You _knew_. The two of you have been sulking about with each other for the last few weeks and don’t think I haven’t noticed. I’m a perceptive man, Jefferson. He comes to you and he talks about things. He was at your _house_ when he was supposed to be getting ready for the funeral. You dropped him off _and_ picked him up. And your ‘vacation’ yesterday wasn’t very relaxing if all you did was park down by the Starbucks and wait for him to climb into your car.”

Jefferson gathers breath for his own defense, but Lafayette holds up a finger and cuts him off.

“Don’t you dare. Not until I’m finished. See, what I _don’t_ understand is why you? He hates you. I mean, no offense, but you’re kind of an asshole and being around Hamilton just makes you more of one, so I don’t _get_ it. Do you know what I’ve been doing, Thomas?” Lafayette splays his fingers across his chest near his heart. “When John died...well, he didn’t want his family touching his affairs, can you imagine that? After all, they left him to the wolves at seventeen. But who was going to take care of things? Certainly not Hamilton. He’s distraught, even if he’ll never admit it. And Mulligan, well, he’s upset, too, and fragile and he’s not good at these kind of things, either. But it had to be one of us. It needed to be his friends. So I’ve been dealing with it. I arranged the funeral. I picked out the goddamn…” He swallows hard. “The casket. I sent out the letters, I arranged the charity donations in lieu of flowers, I designed the program, I even wrote the fucking _obituary_ , Jefferson. And I...I’ve been there for him, haven’t I? I check on him after work. I make sure he eats. I made sure he was going to be at the funeral. I found his wallet. I helped him find a new place. I even helped him _move_. I’ve been there. I’ve _been there_ , god _dammit_ , and he doesn’t...he doesn’t tell me? How long has he known? How long have you known?”

“Lafayette, it’s just a delicate--”

“Don’t fucking give me any of that fucking bullshit. Give me a real answer, Thomas. Now.”

Jefferson shrinks in his chair and removes his hands from his lap, puts them on the armrests of his chair instead. He feels a lot like Seabury must have yesterday--completely trapped and ashamed under the rage of the omega before him. And who is he to deny Lafayette the information?

“Since John died. He called to tell him...well. And that’s when he found out. I knew a week later. I saw him after hours and...well, it was just one of those things. He had to tell someone and I was there and he didn’t want to tell you because...he hadn’t decided if he was going to keep it.”

Lafayette scoffs. “So what was his plan? To go get an abortion without telling anyone? To just show up at a clinic one day and whoops, it’s done?”

“It’s not that simple and you know it.” Jefferson frowns. “Besides, he couldn’t go through with it, anyway. He’s keeping it. That’s what he wants. Yesterday, we were gone to a doctor’s appointment. His first one. He’s healthy, the baby’s healthy so far, everything’s fine. But, well, he must have wanted to wait to announce it.”

“That’s just fucking great.” Lafayette starts pacing in front of his door. “Why wouldn’t he _tell_ me? We’re best friends.  I do everything and he just doesn’t _trust_ me. Why you?”

“He was afraid you would...treat him differently. And, I don’t want to be rude or anything, but you have been kind of a, well, mother hen. And if you knew, do you _really_ think you would have backed off? And I just don’t think that he was ready to...well, to announce it until he knew what he was going to do. He was afraid you would pressure him.”

“Into keeping it?”

“Yes.”

“You’re damn right I would have.”

“Well, then, that’s what he didn’t want.”

“And he wants you? Because you won’t _treat him differently_ or _bug him_ or _mother hen him_. Jesus, Jefferson.” Lafayette stills and shakes his head. He slaps his hands down by his side.

“He just wanted to be left alone, Lafayette.”

“Bullshit. _Bullshit_. He didn’t want to be left alone. He wanted to be left with _you_. And the two of you can think whatever you want. Maybe it is just because he wanted someone unbiased. Maybe it _is_ because he felt like he couldn’t talk to me. Or maybe, _maybe_ , it’s because I’m not an alpha, am I?”

Jefferson narrows his eyes and feels himself bristling. “What does _that_ mean?”

“We all get comfort from your kind. Even if we don’t want to admit it.”

“I don’t do that,” Jefferson growls. “ _Hamilton_ doesn’t do that.”

“Sure,” Lafayette says and puts his hand on the doorknob. “You’re wise and mature and better than all the rest of us. The two of you can just ignore whatever desires you feel. I get it. But let me tell you something, Jefferson. If you fuck him over, I won’t be so easily calmed as I am now. No matter what either of you think.”

He opens the door and slams back out of it and Jefferson’s mouth falls open after him, his mind spinning thoughts he’d rather not be drawn to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is definitely going to have some Hamilton/Jefferson moments in it that I'm sure you guys are going to like, so hang on!


	6. Your Water and Your Streetlights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized I left a tag out that I forgot about. "Open Relationship." Hamilton and Laurens weren't entirely exclusive (as described in this chapter). Sorry for the late addition!

Jefferson isn’t witness to the fallout between Lafayette and Hamilton, but nevertheless, he can see the effects. For one, Hamilton and Lafayette don’t speak to one another, often frowning in each other's presence and avoiding the other one like both of them in the room together will set it on fire. And if _that_ is noticeable, then it surely must be a glaring limelight how Hamilton avoids _Jefferson_. Every meeting they are in, he sits at the far side of the table. Every bill that needs to be signed, every opinion that needs to be had, every committee decision he sends through email. He starts arriving well before Jefferson in the morning and locking his door till eight and then leaving with everyone promptly at five--although he still continues emailing until all hours of the night.

And that’s how it goes for the next month. No contact.

Jefferson gets used to it. He won’t say he likes it, but he won’t say he misses Hamilton either. Both statements are some form of defeat and he tucks down the curling thoughts tickling at the base of his neck into a little box with a lock and key. Damn Lafayette for sparking some kind of realization. But never let it be said that Jefferson can’t control his own mind. He’s been doing that for years, after all. And the file labeled _Hamilton_ goes right next to the dusty collections of his childhood and family that he refuses to open. And the filing cabinet gets shut. And the key turns.

Jefferson goes to other things. He pours himself into the omega bill as much as Hamilton does--only they come from opposite ends. Hamilton works with the committee to continue refining the language, continually spitting out draft after draft and other than review the fifth “final version” that Hamilton sends him, Jefferson doesn’t touch the document. He does, though, work on garnering support. He starts with Madison, because that’s easy, but crucial, too. Madison is well loved in the south, even more so than Jefferson, and he’s such a smooth talking man that he’s made friends in many other places as well. His support brings others on board and they start to build a campaign.

Beyond that, Jefferson works doggedly on the French situation, serving as some kind of sanity between Lafayette and Washington’s emails that have gone more, “No, I’m sure you’re right! You’re so smart!” rather that actually arriving at any realistic solution. He keeps on top of his communications. He finishes the agriculture bill. He chairs two committees. He organizes his files. He does everything he can to remind himself of where his place is and where his place isn’t. And that works. It does.

Until one afternoon finds Hamilton standing in his door.

It’s after hours, six if Jefferson’s internal clock is accurate, and the sight of Hamilton here is now so unusual that Jefferson’s mouth drops open in surprise. “Uh,” he says, intelligently, but Hamilton is already in his office and has slid into the chair Jefferson keeps just down from the door.

“Oh god,” Hamilton whispers and it’s quiet, but somehow deafening at the same time. He leans forward, puts his elbows on his knees and hangs his head down, hands in his hair. He breathes rhythmically--the sign of a man focusing on the effort of his lungs. “Sorry, I…” Jefferson waits until Hamilton gathers his thoughts. “I hate Seabury.”

Jefferson frowns. “What he’d do now? Is he treating you terribly again? I will straight-up help you fill out the paperwork to sue him for malpractice.”

“No,” Hamilton groans and lets one hand fall down while the other rubs tiredly at his eyes. “He made me... _shit_. He made me _listen_. To the fucking _heartbeat_.”

Jefferson wrinkles his brow. “The...the baby’s?”

“Yes. Goddamn. He said I needed the ultrasound. Fuck, okay, I _do_ want to do this right, you know? I want it to be healthy. But I don’t want to hear it. All I can think about is there’s this _thing_ inside me. Like, this living _thing_ and then I thought about how different it would be if John…”

He trails into silence and outside, the sun is just beginning to dim. Streetlights pop on like fireflies sparkling the sidewalks and the light casts through Jefferson’s window, leaving everything artificially blown and bright. Hamilton lifts both his hands, clasps them in what for anyone else would be called a prayer, but in Alexander is close to desperation, to the fleeting waters of hopeless that Jefferson can almost physically see him drowning in.

“I can’t grieve,” he says. “And I can’t go on without it. I can’t...I can’t look at this...I can’t even call it a baby, fuck...I can’t look at it. I can’t think about it without thinking that it’s alive because he’s dead. He’s dead and I’m alive. And this...this baby...is alive and I can’t figure out those two things in my head and there’s nothing I can do. You know? Everything I want to do, _fuck me_ , I can’t. Lafayette would say it’s wrong. No, it _is_ wrong and I don’t have anyone, you know? And I don’t know why I’m fucking telling you this, but you’re the one who told me I could do this and I don’t feel like I can do this.”

Jefferson lets the silence encompass them again, swirl around them like a spring breeze cutting through the new heat. “What do you want to do that’s wrong?”

Hamilton laughs, but it’s not cheerful. It’s bitter and deep and _sharp_. He sits up and lays his head back on the wall, looks at something over Jefferson’s shoulder. “What do I want to do? I want to go out and I want to get drunk and I want to fuck someone. Because that’s what we used to do. We used to get wasted and fuck. Or sometimes, it wasn’t even _us_. Sometimes _we_ would take someone back with us or I would or he would or sometimes, sometimes we’d just play with them. Find a boy and make him think we were going to take him home. Make him sweat it out, get him worked up and...but I can’t do that, you know? It’s wrong to...and I can’t do that.”

“Well...you can’t drink.”

Hamilton blinks and his eyes focus, swinging back to Jefferson. “...what?”

“You can’t drink. Because of the baby, you know. But you could do the other stuff. Go out and find someone. If you wanted to.”

Hamilton laughs again, only this time it’s ridiculous. “There’s a reason they don’t have stripteases at funerals, Jefferson.”

Jefferson chuckles. “No? Maybe they should.”

“Even if I wanted to,” Hamilton sighs, “I don’t want to go alone. I don’t trust myself to stay away from the tequila.”

“Then I’ll go with you.”

Hamilton snorts. “Is that the answer to everything?”

Jefferson shrugs. “Until it doesn’t work, why not? I can drive you around. I’ll even sit in the bar and just wait if you want me to. I don’t care. It’s not like I’m doing anything.”

Hamilton’s eyes narrow and he studies Jefferson. Jefferson is reminded of the car back from the funeral, Hamilton’s eyes shrewd like hawks, his wild and predatory gaze. “Why?” he asks. “Why would you offer? Why do you keep _doing_ things like this? Let’s cut the bullshit, alright? Because the agriculture bill would have passed without me. And you didn’t even know what kind of thanks or favors I might give. There’s no deals in this. You don’t care about the deal, so what? So why? Do you feel _sorry_ for me?”

Jefferson chuckles again, but it doesn’t serve to lighten the mood. If anything, Hamilton gets more tense. “No,” Jefferson admits. “I…” He wipes the smile off his face and looks at the lamp on his desk, studies the light through the shade. For the barest of seconds, he lets it in. Lets it _feel_ like it used to feel, surrounded and stifling, noisy and unwanted, and so much water, water, water. When you are that little, what does it matter if you open your mouth to scream?

“I know what it feels like,” Jefferson says, each word careful in its placement, “to feel alone when everyone is around you. I know how it...what it’s like when others tell you you have so _many_ people to support you and you don’t.”

“So you _do_ feel sorry for me.”

“No,” Jefferson says again. “I meant what I said. You can do this. You can do it all alone and you don’t need anyone. You’re stronger than anyone knows. But what I mean is... _I_ did what I had to do alone. And _I_ could do it. _I_ was stronger than anyone knew. But even if you can do it alone...it doesn’t mean you should _have_ to.”

Hamilton lets his eyes drop slowly until he’s staring at the floor between the two of them. His shoulders are taut and his jaw is tight, but his eyes are alive, darting and contemplative.

“The worst thing in the world,” Jefferson tells him, “is to grow up unwanted.” Hamilton’s eyes snap to him. “Don’t let yourself become so bitter that you can’t _see_ this kid. So do whatever you have to do. And fuck Lafayette or whoever it may be that tells you there’s a _wrong_ way to grieve.”

Hamilton stands slowly and takes a step toward the door, before pausing and turning back to Jefferson. “Meet me at Rocking Richard. In an hour.”

***

Jefferson arrives outside the club early, but Hamilton is already there, leaning against a lightpost, hands in his pockets as he waits. And, because this will probably be the only time he’ll be able to, Jefferson drinks him in. He’s different than he is in the day, than Jefferson has seen him at work or after hours. His hair is shinier, clothes tighter--a deep red shirt rolled up at the sleeves, denim that clings where it should. There’s a determined tilt to his mouth, his eyes are intensely narrowed, and his hair is down, touched softly by the evening breeze. He is there. He is ready. And he is, indeed, alive. No matter how much that may hurt him.

Jefferson is different, too. He doesn’t often go to clubs like this, not anymore. But he used to. He used to drown his memories at the bottom of a glass when he was old enough to know how to until he got old enough to know how _not_ to. And now, well, even if these walls aren’t the walls that cradled him when he was at rock bottom, they feel like old friends. He can slip into the environment like he was made for it. And so he does.

Hamilton pushes himself off of the lightpost when he sees Jefferson approaching, hands still in his pockets. Jefferson mimics him, strides over and keeps a respectful distance between them. “What do you want me to do?” he asks, because he’s not here for his own peace of mind.

Hamilton grunts and lifts a hand to run through his hair. “Well, you said you’d sit at the bar. Be the alcohol gatekeeper.”

Jefferson nods. “I’ll do that. And what are you going to do?”

Hamilton shrugs. “Fuck around.”

“So what should I do? Are you going to take someone into the bathroom? Do I wait until I see you leave with someone and then I go home?”

Hamilton shakes his head aggressively. “I’m not going to fuck anyone. I’m just going to…”

He trails off, seemingly at a loss for words for once in his life. So Jefferson chimes in. “Flirt?”

Hamilton snorts. “Sure. Flirt.”

“Okay,” Jefferson agrees and then motions at the door. “Lead the way.”

Hamilton takes him inside and the club is already busy even for this early in the night. Jefferson wouldn’t call it _packed_ by any means, but there are enough people in residence that the dance floor is going strong and they have to slip a good ways down the bar before they can find two stools empty. Jefferson perches on one, Hamilton on the other and the bartender asks them for their pick. Hamilton frowns, hesitating, so Jefferson jumps in with an order for two cokes.

Hamilton runs a hand through his hair again, fingertips starting at his temple and scraping back. His hair parts for him and then falls uselessly to the side, hanging around his ears and framing his cheekbones. He looks down the bar, away from Jefferson, his eyes keen and appraising. The music picks up the bass. Hamilton starts tapping out the rhythm on the shiny wooden surface.

The bartender returns, puts two cold glasses in front of them. Hamilton picks up his and chugs, throws it back like it isn’t a brand named soda, but a shot instead--some whiskey or vodka or gin meant to slide down the throat and hang heavy in the gut. And then, when the glass is empty, he turns, pours himself off the barstool like a slick eel cutting through water and makes for the dance floor. Jefferson watches him, notes the cut of his shoulder blades against the thin fabric of his shirt, and when he disappears between two laughing men, Jefferson turns back to the bar.

He nurses his coke. Hamilton dances.

At first, Jefferson watches him only from his peripheral vision, keeping tabs on Hamilton in flashes of movement here and there, quick snapshots of him with his hair flying, his hips moving, a smile on his face that never reaches his eyes, a tick to his body that undercuts the roaring of waves Jefferson knows is within. But it’s boring at the bar and Jefferson’s drink only lasts him so long. So he finds himself slowly turning, his body rotating in its seat to watch Hamilton, to capture him in his mind’s eyes as stark and real as any painting.

He is both smooth and harsh. His body rolls with liquid finesse, every muscle and ligament giving rise to the next in a glorious symphony of motion that arrives at a hip roll, a head shake, a motion of his limbs about. But he is also as bitter as a winter wind, as cutting and as stark in the movement of his bones. He is captivating and it’s not only Jefferson who thinks so. The others crowd around him and the whole dance floor bends and weaves dependent of which direction he moves. Omegas give him respectful room, betas smile their approval, alphas follow his trail with hot eyes.

And Hamilton returns none of them. He both acknowledges the center of attention and rejects it, refuses to dance close to any one person for more than a few seconds, captures them all and then dances away, never meets any gaze intentionally in a pattern that is the opposite of submission. He is fierce. And the entire building bows before him, on the edge of their seats, _waiting_ for Hamilton to choose just who he will…

But he doesn’t choose. Not anyone on the floor, anyway. His eyes lift--dark, deep earth as it rumbles and shakes--and find Jefferson, even through the distance and the tangle of bodies. They collide with his own and Jefferson wishes he could say he was less captivating than the others, that he had somehow become immune to the glory of Hamilton after all this time. But he isn’t. He may never be. And he feels the foundation of his body shift, even as Hamilton shifts, even as he breaks through the throng, pushes two men aside to approach the bar, as elegant and dangerous as a cat stalking.

“Hello, stranger,” he purrs when he is close enough, spinning around to put his back against the bar, his elbows hanging off the edge. “My name is Alexander.” He smiles, but there is no joy there, just hot, wild, raging desperation. “Would you like to dance with me?”

Jefferson smiles himself, recognizing the game and playing into it. Only it’s not a game, is it? It’s retribution, lamentation. A funeral march. _What we used to do_. The words echo in Jefferson’s head. How many times did Hamilton make Laurens jealous with another boy? How many times did John retaliate? And how many times was in not about jealousy, but something else? Together, or apart. A relationship strong enough to be open. And this, Hamilton’s earthquake eyes, his liquid hips, that’s for John. Of course, Jefferson knows it is. And of course, what Jefferson says, well, that’s for John, too. “My name is Thomas. And yes, I would love to dance with you.”

Hamilton grins and turns to whistle at the bartender. “A water, please.” The bartender pours it quickly and slides it his way and Jefferson expects him to down it like he had the last one, but instead he takes the thing and tips it, pours it over his head and shakes out the water all over his shoulders and chest. It trickles, digs in, soaks his hair board straight and dripping and while Jefferson’s eyes widen at the visual, the fingers of Hamilton’s right hand slip into Jefferson’s belt loop and pull, dragging him from the stool.

Jefferson stumbles off of it and Hamilton lifts his left hand, runs his fingers through his hair the same as before--from the temple back. The wet strands resist and tangle on his knuckles and one refuses to obey, lies stuck to his forehead in a jagged manner, half in his eye and Jefferson lets the music and the very vibration of Hamilton’s being seduce him enough to lift his hand, put his thumb on the strand and push it back to its brethren. Hamilton grins, all teeth and slick, sexual torture and keeps pulling, both hands on Jefferson now--one still at his belt, the other on his hand.

They hit the throng of people that bow to them, let them slip inside, and the music takes Hamilton’s body once again. Jefferson watches him sway, watches him bend, watches him roll, but this time instead of quick, searching glances, his eyes are fixed and unmoving on Jefferson, locked onto the target of their choosing. “Do I have to go talk to Mr. Arms over there?” Hamilton asks, with a quick nod to a man in a tank top dancing his heart out. “Or are you going to move?”

Jefferson gives him a quick up and down and drinks in his body language in a second. He is relaxed, filled with the music, but also tense. Shaking in anticipation, desiring the thrill of the dance like the cheetah desires chase. He wants something in Jefferson. Something Jefferson doesn’t let loose. But, oh, Hamilton is free. So, Jefferson is free.

He grabs Hamilton, quick like the snap of a whip and turns him in an instant, presses Hamilton’s back against his chest through the force of his arm across his abdomen. Hamilton comes flush against him and Jefferson dips his head, presses his nose right above Hamilton’s ear, feels the wetness of his hair, hears the low, rumbling moan that comes from his chest. Hamilton lifts his hand behind himself, loops it around Jefferson’s neck, digs fingers into his curls and Jefferson finds the beat of the bass and swings himself in tune with it. He rotates his hips to the music and Hamilton follows him and they rock in sync, their bodies going left, right, and then down, up, and Jefferson controls him like Hamilton is his to control, like his body and heart wasn’t given long ago to a ghost.

Jefferson’s alpha comes out, strong and growling, and Hamilton shivers in the face of it, even if they both know that it is only Hamilton’s invitation that has gotten them there. They dance, they sway, Jefferson’s hand dips under Hamilton’s shirt and scrapes across his skin, feeling the flatness of his chest, his abs. Hamilton bends for him, rocks for him, rolls his body against Jefferson’s until the rough, hard pressure like sandstone is impossible to ignore. Hamilton gasps when Jefferson’s hips tick ever so slightly into his ass and Hamilton’s body responds by pushing back against him.

Jefferson turns him, fast again and loops his hands around Hamilton’s waist. He ducks his body and comes up under Hamilton’s chin, his tongue finding the hollow of his throat and following it up, even as they keep dancing. The water from earlier has trickled down in a little stream on his throat and Jefferson tastes it--hot and sweaty now from his body--and follows it up past Adam’s apple, past jawline to his hair, takes a strand of it and sucks the water out. Hamilton groans. Jefferson wraps him tighter. And then Hamilton is pushing and Jefferson gives him enough space to see what he will do, but Hamilton is an animal like he is and turns his head to rub his cheek against Jefferson’s, to let his body work its way up upon him and what point is any of this if they don’t smell like each other when they leave? If the random woman that passes Hamilton on the way home doesn’t _know_ an alpha has been on him, doesn’t sense the wave of possession that Jefferson is now displaying?

But it’s not like it’s just Hamilton. It’s him, too. Jefferson’s nose is filled with him, with his scent like it had been when Hamilton bowed to him and Jefferson _craves_ that. The animal in him howls for it and any sensible thoughts have now fled the both of them. They have finally hit the core of each other.

Hamilton pulls back enough to look him in the eye and Jefferson groans at the gaze. If he thought it was hot earlier, it is molten now. Deeper than any soil. It is the rock that makes up the core of the earth, _boiling_ lava in its intensity and it burns Jefferson from the inside out. Hamilton lifts his hand and puts it on Jefferson’s cheek, and his eyes dip to Jefferson’s lips. He licks his own and Jefferson, instinctually, parts his mouth. Hamilton chuckles and digs his fingernails into flesh, pulls them down Jefferson's cheek to his neck, leaving marks that mingle with his scent to claim.

“Do you think I’m going to take you home, Thomas?” Hamilton purrs.

Jefferson chuckles and pulls him in closer, quick enough to make Hamilton gasp. “No, Alexander. I rather think I’m going to take _you_ home.”

Hamilton laughs. “Not a chance,” he says and Jefferson smiles, because he knows, too. Knows that even through the heady smells, the touch, the taste, the sound of Hamilton’s low moans, the sight of his eyes so wide, he is still and will always be Laurens’. And if there is a place for him to be anyone else’s too, well, it’s not now. And Jefferson is not fool enough to even hope for it.

So he releases Hamilton, lets him go and melt away until the mere six inches between them feels like a lifetime. They stop dancing, even though they don’t leave the dance floor. And Jefferson watches in awe as Hamilton transforms. His rough ire and his smooth sexuality melt and he stands before Jefferson as the man he has always known. He swallows and nods, reaches into his pocket to grab a hair tie and works his strands back into order. “I’m done,” he whispers and Jefferson is so in tune with him, he hears him clearly, even above the music.

Hamilton turns and walks back through the crowd and Jefferson follows, pauses only to pay their tab and heads outside to find Hamilton looking up at the stars through the film of the city lights. His hair is still damp, but controlled now and his hands are back in his pockets. He looks smaller than he did in the club, less commanding, but no less like a portrait of some emotion Jefferson can only dare to touch. He wonders if in his own moments, he had looked this way, but the thought is nonsense.

Jefferson heads right, knowing the area of the city well enough to find the best route to the metro that will take Hamilton back to his apartment. Behind him, he hears Hamilton’s footsteps as he follows, the heaviness of their weight. Everything in him wants to turn around, wants them to walk step in step, but he knows this journey isn’t his. He is only the gatekeeper, the referee of this moment, not a participant in it. Still, he is happy to give Hamilton this.

He takes a right turn down a small street that is nevertheless still lit warmly. The buildings on either side of them are dark and the pavement is cracked and speaks of disuse. It is quieter here, far quieter than the city should be, and Jefferson hears the rush of cars behind them muffled like they are under water so heavy and so clear. Is that moment like this one? Yes. And no.

Jefferson continues on. He listens with rapt attention to Hamilton’s footsteps six or seven feet behind him-- _thud, thud, thud,_ and then...silence. The scraping of heels as they come to brake. Jefferson turns slowly and sees Hamilton under a streetlight, looking up and then around. He turns slowly, takes in the staircases of buildings, the fire escapes, the pavement under his feet, the dull grayness of the sidewalk. “This is…” he whispers and the sound cracks like words dissipating an otherworldly fog. 

He collapses. It is slow, but still shocking. His body stops spinning, his hand reaches for something to hold him, but without anything there, he falls. Slowly, his knees crumble and then his body bends until he is sitting on the pavement, one hand shaking as it grips cracked stone. He bows over himself and the other hand comes up to cover his mouth, but it can’t keep in the inevitable wail that pierces the stillness around them. He squeezes his eyes shut, but that, too, cannot dam the flood that follows, that cascades down his cheeks and neck hotter and wilder and more raging than the water in the club. He screams out a choked sob and starts rocking, crying into the night air that swallows both of them up and leaves them gasping.

And Jefferson, well...Jefferson stands there. Because he can’t do anything else. He knows Hamilton, maybe better now than he had before, and to try and comfort him, no. That’s not what he needs. This night isn’t about solace, about _I’m sorry_ or _it will get better_. This night was always about the pain, the deep void of it, how it scratches and claws and won’t let you be-- _her heart beating, he could feel it as he held her_ \--and to interrupt it, that, _that_ would be the horror.

So Jefferson approaches, but keeps his distance. He sits on the edge of the sidewalk and folds his hands in front of him, watches Hamilton in the street as he lifts his head to the light and cries, shrieks like something of myth and Jefferson had thought he had seen grief, had witnessed the waves of it as they engulf, but sitting here, under the flickering streetlights that try to remain warm in the face of Hamilton’s fury, he realizes this is something new. Something sacred.

Hamilton is a god being born, a man being formed from the dust of this city, the light of the lamp as it shines down, the heavy lightness of the air as it swirls and swirls. He is the keeper of grief, of pain, and righteous storm. He is the image personified and yet, he is also beautiful. And also strong.

For he can quiet. He can survive the brutal tyranny of sadness. And he does. He lifts his head eventually to Jefferson and says so quietly, Jefferson has trouble hearing him in the silence, “This was the route we took home.” He squeezes his eyes shut and the last few solitary tears leave him. He takes a ragged breath and his voice gets stronger. “We used to take this street home. We would laugh and we would...I hate him. I should be sad, and I am, but I’m _angry_. The _bastard_. I always told him to be careful and look at what he’s done to me. _Look at it_. I can’t think, I can’t _live_.”

“You can,” Jefferson assures him. “You are.”

Hamilton shoots his gaze to him, glares, and it’s seething enough that Jefferson looks away.

“You share a lot of qualities with him,” Hamilton says and Jefferson snaps his eyes back up, surprised. “And yet, you are _nothing_ like him. Nothing at all.”

Jefferson waits for Hamilton to elaborate, but when he doesn’t, he gathers his own breath. “Am I at least helping?”

Hamilton lifts one of his shoulders in a shrug. “It’s hard to _help_ this. But...yeah. You’re the only one who is.”

Jefferson nods and remains there, on the sidewalk with Hamilton in the street, until Alex stands up on his own, brushes his jeans off as if leaving the last shreds of desperation behind. “I’m done,” he says and unlike in the club when it spoke of sadness, this time it speaks of determination. Jefferson rises with him and begins to walk again. Hamilton falls in step beside him.

They navigate the streets in silence and when they get to a crossroads, Jefferson pauses. “I’m that way,” he says, jerking his finger to the left.

Hamilton chuckles, the bitter little sound made after tears. “You’re not going to walk me home?”

Jefferson smiles and starts walking away. “Why would I? You’re not a damsel are you?”

Hamilton laughs for real this time and begins to go to the right, walking backwards. “No,” he says, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I’m certainly not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, for anyone wondering if omega!Hamilton will be safe while he walks home alone, he will be! I realized that the next chapter starts after this night is over, so I didn't want anyone to worry about his safety. :D He's a strong cookie. He can take care of himself.


	7. You and I, Wild and Running

Jefferson fully expects Hamilton to avoid him after the club for so many reasons that he is at a loss to count them. But he finds very quickly that the opposite is true. Something has shifted somewhere between the coke thrown down Hamilton’s throat like righteous fire and the flimsiness of his limbs as they scattered on the street in the quiet mist of mourning. No, something is different now. Something is unhinged. And where before they danced around each other like wolves on territory lines, now Hamilton draws himself to Jefferson like they are no longer _opposing_ , no longer _antagonistic_ , but not quite _friends_ , either. Not quite belonging.

Of course, a good part of that is Lafayette. Although he takes a bit of time away from Hamilton--and Jefferson has noticed his time has been rather tied up in a certain George Washington--he regroups and comes back with a vengence. He brings Hamilton food whenever he can, starts up conversations in the breakroom about cribs and diapers, even calls Hamilton at night to see if he got in his apartment at a reasonable time--and Jefferson definitely witnesses Hamilton lying through his teeth about that one. And Hamilton, well, Hamilton does as one would expect him to do. He gripes and complains and bitches and then starts retreating, running, _avoiding_ and it doesn’t take long before that avoidance leads him straight to Jefferson’s office.

It’s a fine Wednesday morning when Hamilton slithers his way inside and then immediately slaps the door shut, fiddling for the lock and sliding it to latch. “Oh my _god_ ,” he whines in desperation, not even caring that Jefferson is seventeen pages into a thirty-eight page paper with drafts and highlighters and pens and sticky notes surrounding him like an Office Max mascot just threw up all over his desk. “He’s talking about _pacifiers_ ,” Hamilton continues before Jefferson can open his mouth to tell him he’s busy. “He’s going _on_ and _on_ and _on_ about kinds and brands and reviews and I don’t give a fuck, okay? Am I supposed to give a fuck? It’s just a _pacifier_. My _god_.”

Jefferson grunts and goes back to highlighting the line he wants to properly remember. “He’s trying to help. You could pretend--”

“I’ve been pretending for days,” Hamilton whines and slumps himself into one of Jefferson’s chairs. “I _just_ want to have a goddamn normal conversation. About tequila or women or men or sports or the rather egregious state of our national educational system. I don’t want to talk about _bottles_ unless it is _bottles of beer_ and I definitely don’t want to talk about _wipes_ unless it is _wiping out the staggering amount of our nation’s poverty_. Fucking hell, man. Help me.”

Jefferson chuckles and sets down his highlighter. He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. “Well, how can I help you, princess?”

Hamilton glowers at him. “Hide me. And give me something to do. I’m bored as fuck.”

Jefferson grunts and looks down at the current state of his article. He slides his hand over to his mouse and clicks the computer back to life, hitting print on the document once more. “Proofread this,” he declares.

Hamilton cracks his knuckles and rotates his neck in a circle like he’s getting ready for an Olympic competition. Jefferson glares. “And _no_ commentary,” he adds with a growl, slapping the warm paper straight from the printer into Hamilton’s grubby hands.

It takes two seconds before Hamilton is furrowing his brow. “You call _that_ an _opening_ _sentence_?”

***

Friday finds a similar situation happening as Jefferson looks up around the end of the day to see Hamilton skittering into his office and wedging the door closed, flipping the lock for security. Jefferson glares this time, his presence definitely unwelcome if the papers with Hamilton’s red pen scratches all over them and currently burying his desk are any indication. But Hamilton doesn’t seem to notice or care as he launches right into, “Dear lord, a baby shower. He’s organizing an office baby shower. Where people will give me onesies and shit I won’t need for months and probably won’t ever need at all. Do you have any concept of how many clothes a pregnant omega gets? Well, I don’t either, but I am just _betting_ you it’s a metric fuck ton, Jefferson.” The door secure, he turns around to face Jefferson and then points to his desk with glee. “Oh, hey! You’re working on my edits! Did you get to page six yet? I think you’re really going to have to rewrite six through eight, for the sake of decent humanity.”

Jefferson rolls his eyes. “You’re an obnoxious little shit and I personally think that the argument against state versus federal in seven is a work of genius and furthermore--”

But he never gets to finish his point as, to the surprise of both of them, Jefferson’s office doorknob turns. Hamilton squeaks and backs up several steps toward Jefferson’s desk, knocking his hip against the edge. And sure enough, when the door swings open, who is there but Lafayette, jangling a set of keys in his hands with a smirk. “George has a master key. I knew you would be in here.”

“Hey,” Jefferson snaps at the accusation, but Lafayette ignores him.

“Now,” the Frenchman says, drawing up his spine and strutting inside. “I know you weren’t very happy going over all those baby shower details, mon ami, and of course, I am at fault. Who wants to organize their own party? Don’t you worry about it at all. I’ll take care of it, oui. I can pick the colors, I’ll send out invitations and--oh, you don’t mind if I set up a registry at Babies-R-Us, do you? Of course you don’t. I’ll figure everything out. Now, one more detail, though, that I can’t really do on my own.” Hamilton groans, but Lafayette ignores him. “Clothes! Not baby clothes. Your clothes, mon cher, Hamilton. That’s what my gift will be. We’re going to go shopping. For pregnancy clothing!”

Lafayette stands there grinning from ear-to-ear and it’s only Washington’s voice outside asking for his keys back that distract him long enough for Hamilton to slide his eyes Jefferson's way in a panic. “You are coming with me,” he hisses.

“ _Me_?” Jefferson forcefully whispers back, putting his hand on his chest for emphasis. “Do you see the _mess_ you have left me, Alexander? I have to get these edits down by tonight for--”

“OH, JEFFERSON!” Hamilton says loudly, turning and grabbing Lafayette’s arm, “Hey, Lafayette! Jefferson said that sounds like a great idea and he’s going to come along and buy bullshit for me, too!”

“Oh, fuck you,” Jefferson whispers, but Lafayette ignores the language from both of them and just waves his hand happily toward the door.

“Good, good!” he says and starts tugging Hamilton along. “George doesn’t mind if you leave early today since the two of you can never stop working. Do you George?” he calls and Washington grunts an affirmative as Lafayette and Hamilton cross the threshold, Hamilton gesturing aggressively and _rudely_ in Jefferson’s direction.

***

The mall is a place Jefferson never finds himself in and, frankly, takes to avoiding as if the mere sight of the sticky floor tile and the cheap, poorly made display of ripped jeans will give him some life-altering disease like _chic_ or _metrosexual_. No, Jefferson always prefers tailored made and one of a kind suits and, alright, he can admit maybe he likes the color purple a little too much, but dear lord, he’s certainly not going to stoop to buying anything that came from a store called _JCPenney_. And, to be frank, Hamilton doesn’t look any more comfortable than Jefferson at the prospect, although Jefferson guesses it might be because his clothes alternatively come from a) Mulligan refusing to accept “no” or b) the thrift store.

Still, Lafayette happens to be the only one of them at ease in the place full of sticker prices and moody teenagers and he weaves them through the crowd to the omega pregnancy store with more grace than a place with a food court should allow. It’s rather good for Jefferson, honestly, that Lafayette is on a rampage and tugs Hamilton to a clothing rack the second they get in, shoving articles of clothes at him. It allows Jefferson to meander to the middle sitting section where several other alphas are unhappily waiting for their mates to find the correct forms of dress. Jefferson sits on the edge of one of the chairs and puts his hands on his knees, clasps them in front of him and waits.

Silently, he takes in the scene. Several store workers mill about, helping here and there with various questions about colors and sizes. Jefferson notes from their body language and aura that the majority of them are betas, although there is one omega trying to make herself look small. Other than that, there are quite a _lot_ of pregnant people in various stages and an equal number of alphas either staying jealously close to their partners or giving them some space and sitting in the waiting area, even if the atmosphere is tense and uncomfortable. The smells filter around Jefferson--aggressive pheromones from those sitting close to him, submissive ones from most of the room. And although each individual thread is unique unto itself, they are all so similar in tone that they blend together into one big melting pot that Jefferson is so used to he can almost ignore. Even Lafayette, who has now shooed Hamilton to a fitting room, merges into the larger aura, his personal tone bending and weaving to his surroundings.

Jefferson doesn't falter. Like always, he is something apart. He wonders what he feels like to others, what they sense in him, what his specific tone and aura says about what kind of man he is. He feels almost defensively neutral and the alphas around him respect the bubble that he keeps for himself. He doesn’t throw his weight around, doesn’t need them to know he is in _charge_ , doesn’t want to be in charge anyway. And he isn’t jealous, even now, over either of the two that walked in with him. He doesn’t set himself up as their keeper, watcher, or protector. He is his own and he lets them be their own and that fact in itself sets him worlds apart from the alphas that never stray a foot from their mates and from, too, the omegas who buy into the false reality that the world is _one way_ , that there is such a thing as _should be_.

And then, of course, there is Hamilton. Jefferson senses him even if he doesn’t see him and only now does he realize how familiar he has become to Hamilton’s presence. It is like the store is an ocean of constantly moving water, liquid that crashes and coalesces together, each individual string of molecules making a drop of water that makes a wave that makes the sea and Hamilton--Alexander, the name is sweet in his thoughts--is a stone that juts from that sea, that brings solidity and protection, a place to be, a place to rest, the foundation of something secure, but striking and wild and rough. Jefferson could never claim him. None of these others sitting nearby could, either, even if they wanted to. And Jefferson knows that even Laurens couldn’t. And why, god, for all that is sacred, why would Jefferson ever want to?

So he doesn’t posture. And he doesn’t command. He simply waits until Hamilton walks out of the fitting room in a ridiculously fluffy sweater with sleeves too long for his arms and a figure that drops his waist down somewhere around his hips and when Hamilton turns to him with an exasperated half-smile, half-frown on his face at the ridiculousness of this all--like it is somehow natural for them to seek each other across a room--Jefferson releases a tendril of himself like he hasn’t done for so longer he barely remembers how, and lets his aura brush up against Hamilton’s in something like supplication. Hamilton blinks and holds his gaze. Jefferson keeps it, too, and they stare like that, in a moment frozen in the middle of a cheap and sticky mall, something shifted in the wind. 

***

One shop turns into two, which turns into three, which turns into five and Hamilton is exasperated and tired and, more than that, _cranky_ , so when Lafayette spends an extra minute examining if red or orange will look better on Hamilton, Jefferson feels a tug at his arm and soon enough, he is part of an escape plan that lands them in the middle of the mall food court with two large vats of ICEEs. The place is crowded, a throng of people around dinner time, so even with Lafayette’s determination, it will take him quite a while to find them. Which must be what Hamilton is thinking as well, because it doesn’t take him long to launch into the real agenda for the escape.

“What are you doing?” he asks, the question clear and sharp.

Thomas blinks and avoids. “What do you think I’m doing?”

Alex rolls his eyes and puts his forearms on the table between them, leaning over and grabbing his straw between his teeth, pulling at the cherry foam within. He sucks down a third of it in one go and then stops. “You know the, uh…” He frowns and looks off to his left before cracking his neck and returning to the ICEE. Another sip. “The club,” he starts again and looks up at Jefferson.

“We don’t have to talk about the club,” Thomas is quick to say.

Alex shakes his head. “No, uh...I think I need to tell you that it, well, that it wasn’t…” He stops and clears his throat, casts his eyes at Jefferson from under his lashes, bashful in a way that is incredibly unlike Hamilton. “It wasn’t _all_ about...Laurens.”

Thomas stops his immediate reaction, which is to suck his breath up into something like a gasp. Instead, he keeps himself controlled, smooth, and if the image of Hamilton’s eyes hot like lava on his own, his nails as they raked, his body so close with the music around them, the sway of his hips...if that enters his thoughts, he does his best to stop it, to press it down into a lockbox thrown into the back of his mind. He remains neutral as he asks, “It wasn’t?”

Hamilton scoffs and sits up straight, pulls his left foot up to rest on his right knee. “Let’s not play the game, okay? I’m too tired for the game right now. Look, I’m telling you honestly that I must be out of my goddamn mind because you are...intriguing. I’m intrigued, alas, I’ll admit it. But just because the club was what the club was doesn’t mean that _this_ ,” he gestures between them, “is going to turn into anything.” Jefferson gives a slow nod, but offers no comment, and true to form, Hamilton can’t stand the silence. “This just isn’t the time.” Jefferson gives another nod. Hamilton glares in his direction. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

Jefferson gives himself another second of pause. “The club wasn’t all about Laurens.”

Hamilton grunts. “And _this_ isn’t about Laurens. You get that, right?”

Jefferson lifts his drink and takes a swallow before setting it down. “Can I ask you a question?” Another grunt. “About John?” A slow frown, but a nod. “Was it an open relationship or a polyamorous one?”

Hamilton’s frown deepens. “What do you mean?” he asks coolly.

Jefferson shrugs. “You said that you would go to clubs and pick up other people. Sometimes together, sometimes not. Was that allowed?”

“John didn’t _allow_ me to do anything.”

Jefferson smiles. “I know. But was it an equal acceptance? And was it just for fucking? Or did you have relationships, too?”

Hamilton darts his eyes around as if the mere topic of conversation will bring anvils crashing down on his head. “Alphas don’t share and omegas don’t allow themselves to be shared.”

“And when were John and yourself ever just an alpha and an omega?”

Hamilton studies him under the bright lights and amidst the noisy crowd as it clamors forward and backwards. His eyes narrow and become crystal clear glass, sharp as they take in every angle of Jefferson. “It was an understanding that was never really acted upon beyond the physical, but it wasn’t just for sex. Why? Does the thought disgust you? An upstanding alpha like yourself?”

“I thought you said you didn’t want to play the game.”

“Then what, you _approve_?”

“I don’t approve of cheating. Inequality. That particular situation leaves a bad taste in my mouth, let’s put it at that. But it sounds like you and John were different. Of course you were. And why would I care? The way I see it, the way I have always seen it, it’s not like the relationship ever really stopped. It’s not like you’ll ever replace him or even lose what feelings you have for him. That’s evident. And why would anyone want you to?”

“So, what?” Hamilton scoffs, “You want to be my second after him?”

“No. I’m just saying that I understand. This isn’t about Laurens.”

Hamilton frowns. “I’m not giving you a proposition, though.”

“I’m gathering that. But if it’s not about Laurens, what is it about?”

“You,” Hamilton spits. “Look, I’m Alexander Hamilton. You’re Thomas Jefferson. The two have always been oil and water and we’ve never really seen eye-to-eye.”

“Aren’t we now?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not _me_. If you haven’t noticed, I’m pregnant. I just bought a fuck ton of clothing to cover the basketball that’s growing under my skin, I’m downing cherry ICEEs like I’m starving to death, I’ve started to _nest_ \--you would not believe the amount of blankets I’ve purchased in the last week--and my hormones, as you can probably tell, are _raging_. There is absolutely no way I’m thinking straight and, to be quite frank, when I _am_ back to myself and thinking about more than just creating a damn den like I’m a fucking dog, I _won’t_ like you. So there’s no point it in and besides, even if I _was_ ready, you sure as hell aren’t.”

Thomas blinks. “...what?”

“Oh, come on,” Alex laughs. “It’s obvious. Isn’t it obvious?”

“Isn’t _what_ obvious?”

“You see me, sure. But you also see someone else.” It’s Thomas’ turn to scoff and look off out at the crowd instead of Hamilton’s dark earthy eyes. Alex continues. “I see it when you look at me sometimes. You get glassy, like you’re remembering. You’re closed-mouthed and broody. You care too much and too little all at the same time. It’s not hard to notice grief when you’re also in grief.”

“I’m not in grief.”

“Oh, you’re not?”

“I can’t be. You shouldn’t grieve over someone you barely knew.”

“And when have you done what you are supposed to do?”

Thomas shakes his head softly, giving Hamilton the point. “Well, it’s not something I like to talk about.”

“But yet, you think about it. With me. That’s why you’re doing this isn’t it? For someone else.”

“For someone else,” Thomas agrees softly, “who I wish I could have been there for. But like Laurens...not only.”

“We can’t just…”

“I’m not saying we should.”

“Me, either.”

“Alright then.”

“Okay.”

“Fine.”

“Settled.”

Thomas sighs and stares at the obnoxiously shiny table between them. “But there is a status quo to consider.”

Alex’s eyebrow raises. “And what status quo are you referring to?”

“It’s quite obvious that you don’t like how the others are treating you. There’s Lafayette, he’s a clear example. But everyone else, too. You’ve said it yourself. I’m different. So are you really saying you want to stay away from me?”

“I never said that. I’m just telling you I don’t want to...proceed.”

“So we need to define what our status quo is. We need to know the boundaries. Don’t we? Isn’t that why you brought it up in the first place?”

Hamilton frowns and taps his fingers against his cup. “I said I’m nesting. I’m having some really strong ass urges to...I don’t even know. Touch, I guess. So, if we’re continuing on and I...well, don’t take it to heart, is what I’m saying.”

Jefferson nods. “Noted. And if I touch back, isn’t that reciprocal instinct? Don’t look too much into it.”

“Sure,” Alex says, still staring at the cup and tapping out a rhythm softly. “I like being around you because you don’t say shit about it. The...the baby. And you don’t treat me differently, so I might...be around you more.”

“That’s fine. I don’t mind you being around.”

“You probably should.”

Thomas shrugs and then takes a minute to gather his thoughts before he speaks again. He lets the situation that he has been trying so hard to keep at bay seep into his vision and he names it in direct terms. He can no longer pretend that he and Alex don’t have some form of attraction, some chemistry or connection that keeps pressing and pulling and molding them together. It feels natural and almost somehow wild and this is why he says, “Forgive the metaphor, but it’s like I’m a lone wolf and the world is this giant forest.” Hamilton lifts his eyes to him again, but instead of shrewd, they are warm this time. Waiting. He lets Jefferson continue. “And I have been trekking it for so long. I know the trees and the dirt floor. I know where the river is, where the mountain stops and starts. But I have somehow stumbled across you in the brush and--”

“--and I am also alone,” Hamilton picks up.

“Yes.” Thomas pauses, gives the moment time and feels again the hard edges of his aura as they soften and expand to include Alex. “And we don’t want to be alone.” Because he needs this, he does. He needs someone else to walk with, he needs something beyond the trees he knows, the water he perceives. He can’t keep living alone, he can’t keep howling at a black sky hiding the new moon and hearing nothing but the echoes of his own being as they vibrate back to him, cracked and ragged and torn.

And perhaps it isn’t so much that he has found _Hamilton_ , but that in the moss and vines of the forest lies another _person_. Perhaps, after all, it is merely desperation, merely loneliness, and it doesn’t matter when it is all said and done who walks beside him, who sings with him at the sky, just that someone does. Just that he has someone, no matter who.

But then, he thinks, as Alex’s eyes reflect the dust and bones of the earth that forms the forest, oh, how Hamilton howls.


	8. Your Sound in the Darkness

Lafayette eventually does find them, carrying three huge bags of clothing and a metaphorically smoking credit card that belongs to Jefferson. He groans as Lafayette hands him the receipt and Hamilton, equally, complains when he sees the type of shirts Lafayette determined he needs. But Lafayette has none of it from either of them, snapping that if they had wanted to be part of the decision, they should have _stayed_.

Appropriately shamed, they follow him back to his car and load the bags up, the way back home largely silent as Lafayette broods. They stop over at Alexander’s apartment first and, except for a quick glance to the backseat and Jefferson, Alex doesn’t acknowledge Thomas and instead spends his energy on gathering all the bags up in one large swoop and disappearing into the apartment building.

Jefferson transfers himself to the front seat and Lafayette pulls back out into traffic flowing in the direction of the office to drop Jefferson off at his own car. His frown is evident and the grip he has on the steering wheel is close to white knuckled. Jefferson darts his eyes back and forth between Lafayette’s position and the traffic as he weaves in and out of it.

“Tell me,” Lafayette finally says, voice low and serious, “what I am doing wrong with him.”

Jefferson blinks and doesn’t answer immediately, rather waits for Lafayette to switch lanes and then come to a stop at a streetlight. “I know you’re trying hard,” he offers.

Lafayette scoffs. “I am pretty sure I have had to double my daily calorie intake to make up for the extra energy I’m spending on him. _Why_? I am trying to help him. I’m really trying to be supportive and he does not appreciate any of it.”

“Sometimes he wants to be left alone.”

“ _But_ ,” Lafayette counters, “most of the time he doesn’t _need_ to be left alone, even if he _wants_ to be.”

Jefferson inclines his head. “Well, that’s true. I guess you need to strike a balance.”

“How?”

“Help him--”

“--I am--”

“--without, you know, letting him know you’re helping him.”

Lafayette frowns and scoffs. “How do I do that?”

“Organize the party and just let him know the date, but don’t make him make _decisions_. Just drop off a bag of clothing at his house and don’t make him try them on--you saw how well it worked trying to corral him anyway. Steal his extra key and stock his groceries without acknowledging it.”

“...I could do that,” Lafayette concedes. “The last time I was over there, the only thing he had in the fridge was ketchup and the only thing in the pantry was a bag of Reese's.” 

“See? There are ways.” Jefferson looks out the window as the car starts up again and they pass both old and new brick buildings. “And, you know, he does appreciate it. But it’s Hamilton. He’s not good at expressing anything that’s not an intellectual opinion.”

Lafayette grunts.

“And,” Jefferson adds, “ _I_ appreciate it. I see what you’re doing and...well, thanks. For taking care of him.”

Lafayette gives him a sideways up-and-down as he continues to drive. “The two of you are still not…”

“The two of us are _not_.”

“Even though he likes you?”

“He doesn’t like me. He told me as much.”

Lafayette lets go a bitter laugh. “You know what else Alex isn’t good at? Knowing his own self. Here.” Lafayette pulls into the office parking lot. “There you go.”

Jefferson sighs and opens the door, steps out. Before he closes it, though, he turns back and bends down to meet Lafayette’s eyes. “Have a good night, Lafayette. And thanks again.”

***

Hamilton and Jefferson’s association continues. In a large part, it’s work related. Jefferson has become the de-facto editor of the omega bill, if not the official one. And Hamilton works nonstop on it to craft the clarity of the language, to make the thing as perfect as any bill can be. Beyond that, when they are not talking words, they are talking votes and Jefferson continues to sway Madison and the Southern agenda while Hamilton works diligently on the Federalists.

Hamilton’s way of being changes before Jefferson’s eyes. His tone is less snippy, his expression less disgruntled. He takes fewer opportunities to pick fights over prepositions or the nuances of words. In short, he settles along Jefferson’s side with something similar to kinship and their bickering turns from sharp and cold to something like warm and familiar. But his change, it seems, does not extend to the rest of the office.

A week after the mall, Jefferson is sitting in his office typing up an official response to Madison’s inquiry over some data points of their last committee meeting when he hears an awful scraping sound pick up and get closer to the door. He frowns and swivels his chair only to see Hamilton’s backside come into view followed very closely by the arm of their office lounge couch. Jefferson’s eyebrows go sky high, but Hamilton keeps pulling until the thing crosses the threshold.

He straightens up and gives Jefferson a look and when it’s clear that Thomas has absolutely no idea what he wants, grabs both sides of Jefferson’s chair and pushes until he rolls backward, further into the office. After that, it’s only a matter of Hamilton angling his desk and then dragging the damn sofa in until it’s against the wall by the door. Satisfied, he gives out a sigh and collapses into it, lying down with his head against one arm and his feet propped up and crossed on the other. He pulls out his laptop from the bag strewn over his shoulder and props it up on his stomach, beginning to type.

It takes about sixty seconds for Burr to stick his nose in the door. “ _Hamilton_ , that is our _break room sofa_.”

“Yep,” Hamilton snaps and keeps typing.

“You can’t just--”

“--I did--”

“But--”

“I’m pregnant.”

Burr blinks rapidly and stares at Hamilton, but Alex doesn’t give him the time of day. With a huff, Burr leaves. Jefferson tilts his head, but Hamilton doesn’t acknowledge him, either, and really what is Thomas going to say? So he simply rolls his way back to his desk and waits until, sure enough, Washington arrives not a few minutes later.

“Alexander--”

“I’m pregnant,” Hamilton says.

“You can’t just--”

“Iiiiiiii’mmmmm prrreeegggnnnaaaannnntttt,” Hamilton drawls out. “Or do you want me to sue the office for discrimination?”

“You know that’s--”

“I’m comfy. Go away.”

Washington stares openly and waits, but Hamilton never ceases in his typing. “Jefferson?” Washington snaps. Thomas raises an eyebrow. “Watch him and make sure he doesn’t get into any more trouble. I apparently have to go buy more office furniture.”

Hamilton smirks as Washington leaves and lifts his gaze only to give the tiniest of winks to Jefferson. Jefferson can’t help the grin that spreads across his own face as he shakes his head and goes back to work.

***

And that’s, remarkably, how they stay. The days slip by one-by-one into weeks and except for the times in which one of them has a meeting, Hamilton stays with Jefferson. The couch becomes his place of residence, the office his sanctuary. He plugs his laptop in by the door and works from his spot--even takes calls on Jefferson’s phone. Their coworkers go about their business and they slowly accept just where to find Hamilton, arranging their schedules to note the shared office. And the weeks slip by, gradually changing to fall outside Jefferson’s window.

The leaves start turning into bright yellows and glaring oranges. A particular red tree outside Jefferson’s window begins to drop its leaves. The light gets softer, quicker, and the night comes on sooner and Hamilton, well, Hamilton gets big. As they knew he would.

The change is at first miniscule and neither of them notice, especially since Hamilton changes his T-shirts for sweaters long before anyone else. He snuggles down into his couch with his turtlenecks on and even amps up the temperature in Jefferson’s office to loud and numerous grumblings from Thomas himself. But in the end, Hamilton wins, and even though Jefferson calls him on his bullshit “I’m pregnant” excuse, Thomas is forced to buy a fan--and make sure it’s pointed only at himself and not Hamilton. But the days drag on.

Hamilton starts bringing in other things with him to work. A pillow here and there. A throw blanket. Candles--even though Charles Lee who runs the Safety Department almost has an aneurysm--and once, notably, an antique record player. When Jefferson asks him why all of this shit is in his office, Hamilton only reminds him with a snap, “I’m nesting,” and Jefferson leaves him to it, even if things now are starting to dramatically change--like Hamilton pacing in front of his couch because he can’t find a good spot to sit down, eating alternatively too much and then not enough, and complaining every five minutes that he has to pee.

Jefferson weathers the storm, if accepting the iron will of a pregnant omega can be called a storm, and ignores Hamilton’s quirks. He never questions, never discusses, and even his vocal quips and complaints are small and easy to set aside. He lets Hamilton be, but in comparison to Jefferson, no one else stays silent. Washington continually asks Hamilton what he needs, if it’s vacation or flextime, less stringent deadlines or help meeting goals. Hamilton refuses all of them and doubles over his work, achieving every requirement days early, being at every meeting before anyone else, covering and examining and diligently being a detail-oriented pain in everyone’s ass at every turn.

Which is probably why their after-office quiet working sessions have become more and more frequent. When the rest of the office leaves and the quiet descends, Hamilton works furiously from his perch on the couch and Jefferson finds it only mildly inconvenient that he still has to answer Hamilton’s umpteen million emails instead of speak with the man literally sitting two feet away from him.

Hamilton’s energy only goes so far, though, and often Jefferson turns to find his body weary, his shoulders slumped, his hair out of its standard band and flying ruthlessly around his face. This is the situation today, that Hamilton’s rampaging thunder has left him exhausted, only instead of the usual tired eyes and slow fingers, Jefferson turns to see that Hamilton has collapsed horizontally on the couch and is thoroughly, unequivocally, asleep.

Jefferson pauses in the typing up of his email and listens. It’s soft at first, barely there, but he can hear just the smallest touch of a snore as Hamilton burrows his nose into the couch cushion. He’s in a fetal position and, as Jefferson watches, he curls deeper, shivering even though the sweater that engulfs his frame. His bare toes curl from where he had discarded his socks the second Washington left the building and his hands are buried beneath his side for warmth. He looks...well, there are many words to fill that sentence and Jefferson is not quite ready to admit most of them.

Still, he stands up and takes the throw blanket that Hamilton insisted they keep in the office and shakes it out, slowly spreading it over Hamilton’s frame incrementally. He leaves the feet bare, knowing how much Hamilton will _bitch_ if he covers his toes up, but drapes the thing snugly over Hamilton’s legs and torso. The fringe of the blanket falls on his shoulders and Jefferson tucks it in ever so slightly. As he does, his hand brushes the side of Hamilton's face tucked down into his body and the snoring turns to an altogether new sound indeed. It comes on slow like the slide of tree sap down a line of bark and Jefferson goes still for fear he’ll disturb him. It is quiet, but strong, and gathers momentum as the seconds tick by, rumbling deep in his chest and coming out from his sleeping parted lips. A purr. Hamilton is purring. It rolls like thunder and cascades over Jefferson heavier than any cloth, any heat. In his sleep, Hamilton arcs, and Jefferson’s fingers which have never left his skin, press in deeper to the arch of his neck. Fascinated, Jefferson lets the tips drag so slowly down and hears the rumble break into something wild and loud like drums. It captivates him. It terrifies him.

He lifts his fingers to move them away, to stand back and retreat to the safety of his desk, but as he does, Hamilton’s eyes fly open and Jefferson is stuck in the weight of their being. Dark and encompassing, they watch him and Jefferson wonders just what he sees--this man hovering above him. For that second, everything hangs in the balance--the tightrope walking of their agreed upon boundaries, the line between Hamilton’s gaze as he glares at Jefferson across the conference table and the way those eyes bore into him at the club. And Jefferson for all his flaws, all his loud and brash arguing, knows one thing to be true--that somehow in the gradual shifting of this time, he has gone from used to Hamilton’s presence to needing it, to desperately wishing to keep it.

He opens his mouth, but just before the apology slips, Hamilton tilts his face up, puts his skin against Jefferson’s fingertips once more and lets the purr slip from his chest again. Jefferson blinks in fascination, watches as Hamilton rubs his cheek and neck against Jefferson’s hand, feels the smoothness of his skin marked with the stubble that follows his jawline. “Hamilton,” he whispers and even that small sound feels like a betrayal of the moment.

Hamilton casts his gaze up again, keeps purring and keeps rubbing until Jefferson lets his hand wander, lets himself feel the back of his neck, the arc of his throat, the line where skin meets hair. Outside, the light grows dark and the faintest pings begin as a fall shower hits. In the shadow, Hamilton comes alive like a thing unseen by average man and whispers, clean and clear, “Alexander. Don’t you think you should start calling me Alexander?”

“Alexander,” Thomas says with a little smile, “what are you doing?”

“I don’t know,” he admits, so careful and honest. He puts his hand on Jefferson’s wrist and pulls him down until Jefferson is sitting on the couch with him. After that, it is just a simple arrangement to press his back to Jefferson’s chest and such a simple thing, too, for Jefferson’s arms to go around him, the purr still like a baseline to their symphony. “I told you I was feeling like touch lately. Beyond that, fuck it, I’m too tired to think of everything else.”

Jefferson hums his agreement and instead of continuing to make sense of things, pulls Hamilton closer. “You know what?” he admits, “Me too.”

Hamilton gives a quiet laugh that disturbs the purring for only a minute. “That’s really fucking stupid of you. You’re supposed to be the rational one. I’m the one with the all the hormones making him crazy. The pregnant bomb about to explode baby.”

“You’re an asshole,” Jefferson says with a little chuckle.

“Yes. Everyone has forgotten that.”

“I haven’t.”

“I know.”

Hamilton goes silent and leans back against Jefferson’s chest. His purring raises for a moment before settling into something constant that rivals the pings of the rain. Jefferson puts his nose to the back of Hamilton’s head with little care for how this would look if Lafayette or someone else decided to come back to work and barge in. After all, both he and Alex know it’s not what it seems.

“Why don’t you talk to your family?” Hamilton asks out of nowhere.

Jefferson blinks and frowns to himself. “What do you mean?”

“I mean...who you lost. Who you think about. It’s your family, isn’t it? You said you had a big one,” Alex reminds him. “You said ten kids. But you don’t get any calls or texts. There were no pictures on your walls at home, not of family. Just a few of you and Madison. Your Facebook is suspiciously light. And every time someone brings it up, you look...pissed.”

“I look pissed?”

“Livid.”

“Well, I’m not livid.”

“You’re not?”

“No.”

“Then what are you?”

“...sad,” Jefferson answers for lack of a better word.

Hamilton grunts to himself. “What happened?”

“Nothing you need to worry about.”

They fall into silence, both staring at the window and the light as it grows deeper and deeper into darkness. Eventually, it goes completely away and they are left with nothing but vague shadows of each other. “I miss him,” Hamilton says.

“I know,” Jefferson answers.

“I feel like I’m going to fail. On my own.”

“You won’t fail.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know you, Alexander. You stubborn bastard.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“I am. And you’re not alone,” Jefferson finishes and lets the sound of the rain and Hamilton’s still, small purrs lull them to quiet once more. It’s a long time before either of them stand to leave for their respective homes and when they do, their bones are heavy.


	9. How You are My Constant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friendly reminder that a decent chunk of time passed in the last chapter, so Hamilton is...well, kind of big. :D Hope you enjoy way!pregnant!Hamilton! He certainly isn't!

Hamilton waddles--because by this point it has become waddling--into Jefferson’s office and collapses on their couch next to where Jefferson himself is sitting. Jefferson has his laptop up and with the omega bill officially on the floor and votes being cast, he’s deep into responding to emails for and against and trying to sway members in the right direction.

Beside him, Hamilton grunts and sinks into the couch in a slouching position, setting a little crystal dish of mints atop his stomach and popping them one by one into his mouth like it’s a pile of M&Ms.

Jefferson looks up from his response to Adams and slowly slides his gaze from Hamilton’s mouth to the dish. “Are those the break room mints?”

“Yep,” Hamilton grunts and keeps popping.

“Aren’t they for everyone?”

“Nope,” Hamilton says and pats his stomach rather aggressively. “Just the two of us.”

Jefferson snorts and goes back to his computer, figuring that Burr or Washington or someone will bust down the door if there’s really going to be an office riot over mints. Hamilton keeps popping, separating the apparently inferior mints from the ones he likes. This goes on for awhile-- through about half of Jefferson's senator emails--and when Hamilton gets bored, he puts his hands on either side of his belly and wobbles it until the dish starts to ting as the mints move around.

Jefferson largely ignores him until Hamilton’s silence causes him to glance over. Hamilton has by now removed the mints, frowning, and if Jefferson stretches his hearing, he can hear the tiniest of whimpers. “Something wrong?” he asks and then scoffs to himself. “You gave yourself a stomach ache, didn’t you? Eating those things and then shaking your belly. Oh, fuck, you’re not going to throw up, are you? Avoid the rug, it’s imported.”

“ _No_ ,” Hamilton cuts him off with a growl, “I am not going to _throw up_. It’s…” He wrinkles his nose and buries his neck and shoulders into the couch so that he’s mostly just a pile of belly, “...something else.”

Jefferson furrows his brow. “Do you need to go home?”

“No. That won’t help.”

“Well...do I need to call Seabury?”

“No, that’s not--”

“--if it’s serious, you should go to the--”

“--no, it’s not that--”

“--I mean, if you’re in pain--  
 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Shut up, will you?” Hamilton snaps and then grabs Jefferson’s hand. He yanks it over like he’s trying to pull it straight from the socket and dumps it right on top of his stomach. Jefferson freezes and the _what the fuck_ is almost out of his mouth before he feels it. A kick.

Everything slows down and Jefferson holds his breath as if the moment is indeed timeless. The noise from the building outside their office dulls until all that is left is Hamilton’s quick little breaths as he looks away from Jefferson nervously and Jefferson’s hand on Hamilton’s stomach, his wrist firm in Hamilton’s grip. Jefferson swallows.

It’s warm--both Hamilton’s grip upon his skin and his stomach below the shirt. The baby keeps moving, keeps being a little rascal and that really shouldn’t surprise Thomas considering the parentage. He’s definitely moving around in there. Or she. It. And Thomas follows the movement, pressing his hand down when he feels the rumble of another kick. “Jesus,” he whispers.

“Yeah,” Hamilton grumbles and rubs his thumb ever so slightly against the underside of Jefferson’s wrist. “Jesus.”

Thomas bites his lip. “That’s…” And how does he want to finish the sentence? Incredible? Awe inspiring? _Real?_ Hamilton probably doesn’t want to hear any of that.

“Don’t know what to call this fucking thing,” Alex tells him and pokes at his stomach with the hand not holding onto Thomas like a lifeline. He sighs heavily as he pokes at the same rhythm the baby is kicking.

“A whale belly?” Thomas offers facetiously and Hamilton grabs the throw pillow next to him and smacks Jefferson’s poofed up hair with it. Thomas moves off to the side, but still close and Hamilton shakes out the pillow before attempting to get it under his back. “No. The...baby. Fuck. I have a hard time even saying _baby_. I have no fucking clue what I’m supposed to say. I’m not ready to _name_ it, but it’s weird walking around and just grunting at the thing. And Mulligan said I should call it ‘little man’ or ‘little gal’ or ‘little one,’ but fuck all of that. I don’t even know what sex it is. I don’t even _want_ to know.”

Jefferson stares at Hamilton, still feeling the warmth of him on his palm, the slow stroke of his thumbprint across intimate skin. “Just pick something. Call it that. Some random object. Pencil. It’s pencil now. How’s pencil doing?”

Hamilton rolls his eyes. “Okay, it’s not an office supply. My lord.”

Jefferson chuckles. “Then what? You could call it a name that you’ll never use. Something ambiguous. Like...Engel.”

“Oh, fuck no. I’m not naming a baby Engel.”

“That’s the point.”

“No, I’ll get to used to it and then they’ll hand me the paper and I’ll be doped up on meds and I’ll be like,” Hamilton makes a face, “Uhhhhhh, ENGEL. No. Absolutely not.”

“So call it an endearing nickname that could stick. An animal, how about that? Like Butterfly.”

“Too girly.”

“Wallaby?”

“I hate wallabies.”

“Beagle?”

Hamilton frowns. “John had a beagle. Nothing that reminds me of John.”

Jefferson falters only slightly before he picks up the pieces. “Beetle?”

“What’s it with you and ‘b’ things?”

“Fine. Crocodile?”

“Too scaley.”

“Giraffe?”

“Too weird looking.”

“Chicken?”

“Too...just no.”

“Okay, then what? What’s an animal that you like that doesn’t remind you of John?”

“I don’t know,” Hamilton says with a shrug, absently rubbing his belly through the shirt. “I like snakes. Cats. Uh, frogs.”

“Frog?” Jefferson tries. Hamilton wrinkles his nose and so he corrects. “Toad?”

Hamilton’s hands stop and he pauses looking down at the globe under his shirt. “Toad?”

“Toad.”

Hamilton bites his lip and stares before saying softly, “Toad.”

“So how’s Toad doing?”

“Toad,” Hamilton says, trying it on for size, “is fine.” He frowns. “Actually, that’s a lie. Toad is a pain in my ass. And my bladder. And my cognition. Really, Toad needs to get the hell out of this comfy five-star hotel.”

Jefferson chuckles and leans back against the couch. “Soon.”

Hamilton frowns again and continues prodding. “I’m not ready.”

“I don’t think anyone ever really is,” Jefferson tells him with a shrug. Hamilton just gives a little grunt and reaches for his mints again.

“Yeah, but I’m _really_ not ready.”

“How long does Seabury say you have?”

Hamilton arches his eyebrow. “I don’t know. Seabury is pissed at me.”

“Why? Because you keep calling him on his bigotry?”

“Nah,” Hamilton returns to chewing on mints. “Because I’m not doing what I’m supposed to be doing.”

“And what’s that?”

“For the moment, _ultrasounds_. You know, if you look those things up on line, the blogs tell you ‘totally painless!’ Totally _two-faced liars_ , more like it. They press down and just make me want to pee and keep peeing and having to pee when you can’t pee can be what? That’s right. Painful.”

“So he wants to torture you with, what? Ultrasound pain?”

“No, he wants me to figure out what sex this baby is. I think it’s 99% because he’s tired of keeping the information to himself because he tends to be a blabber mouth.”

“...he knows what the baby is?”

Hamilton shrugs. “Yeah. He’s known for awhile.”

“And you don’t?”

“I don’t want to know.”

“Well, you’re going to have to find out eventually. That’s not exactly going to be a secret for too much longer.”

“Yeah, I know. Thus me not being ready.”

“Why?”

Hamilton frowns and keeps chewing, slowly lifting mint by mint into his mouth. “I’m afraid…” He wiggles his belly again just for the little sound the mints make as they hit the dish, “...that if it’s a boy…” More poking at his belly. “...that it’ll look…” He pushes his belly out and then sucks his gut in. “...like John.”

“Oh,” Jefferson says with a little exhale of breath.

“Yeah. Way to be a downer, right, Alex? God, I feel like nothing but a sad sack of pregnant potato lately.”

“Well, for a sack of potatoes in my office, at least you’re not moldy,” Jefferson offers and Hamilton gives a little grunt of acknowledgement at that. “Look, uh…” Jefferson sets his laptop aside and pulls his knees up so he’s sitting cross-legged on the couch. He half turns to Hamilton. “Okay, that would _suck_ if the baby looked exactly like John and, yeah, that would take some time to get past, but you can’t just ignore it. I mean, it’s going to slap you silly here in a month or so, so you’re going to have to face it _eventually_. And why not face it now? When you can take a little time to come to terms with it if the baby _is_ a boy? Better to tackle any negative feelings you have toward Toad now than when Toad is a tiny toad and not a tadpole.”

“You make no sense.”

“You know what I’m saying.”

Hamilton sighs. “ _Yes_. Unfortunately, I have learned to speak Jefferson over the past seven months and, oh, if I could forget those particular language lessons.”

Jefferson quirks one side of his mouth up. “What I’m _saying_ , Alexander, is that it’s better to face it now than when you are actually face-to-face with your child. The worst thing in the world is to be unwanted.”

“You’ve said that before.”

Jefferson keeps his expression carefully neutral and shrugs. “And it’s still true. It’s not Toad’s fault who Toad’s parents are.”

Hamilton wrinkles his nose, but gives a little sigh. “Fine. I suppose I could go ask Seabury on my next visit.”

“When’s that going to be?” Jefferson asks, rubbing his jawline.

“Next Monday, but I’m actually thinking of cancelling, so then it’ll be…” Hamilton pauses and looks up at the ceiling as if thinking incredibly hard. “Never.”

Jefferson chuckles. “Next Monday. Want me to go with you?”

Hamilton gives a tiny little smile. “Isn’t that a given?”


	10. Of You and Not Of You

Monday rolls around to find Jefferson chauffeuring Hamilton back to the clinic. This time, in opposition to the last memory Jefferson has of the place, Hamilton is greeted respectfully, if not warmly. The receptionist at least looks him in the eye and takes his information before asking him to have a seat in the waiting room while they call Seabury. And Jefferson, much to his relief, is left completely out of it and not forced by virtue of his status to answer for what Hamilton does or does not want.

They sit down in the corner next to a stack of magazines and it takes Hamilton quite a bit longer than it normally would to lower himself down into the chair. He spreads his legs out and huffs. Jefferson gives him a once over and snorts. “You know, there are a lot of people in the world that make pregnancy look graceful and beautiful.” He smirks. “You are not one of them.”

“Shut your whore mouth, Jefferson,” Hamilton growls and digs in his pocket for his phone, tossing it up on his belly.

Jefferson just grabs a magazine next to him for omegaparents-to-be and starts rifling through the best way to swaddle and whether or not to co-sleep. He tries to imagine Hamilton rocking a baby to sleep, Hamilton with a toddler on his hip, Hamilton covered in blues and yellows as his four-year-old gets a little too frisky with the finger painting exercise. It’s all fairly hard for Jefferson to conjure up. He can’t imagine Hamilton pushing a child on a swing--not without a book in his hand at least--or carefully packing a lunch or being the de facto Soccer Parent. That all seems so far out of left field for Jefferson to even contemplate that it forces him to wonder how this baby will make Hamilton change. Or if it really will. Jefferson supposes that instead of finger painting, there could always be drawing financial equations, that instead of swings, it could very well be junior debates, soccer switched for class presidents. There’s more than one way to raise a child and there is no way that Jefferson is going to assume Hamilton will be anything but non-traditional.

Jefferson wonders, then, what he would be like if he were in Hamilton’s shoes. That’s a different image--Jefferson with one of these wrap things the magazine loves so much strapped to his chest and a baby cuddled up next to him, Jefferson with a toddler carefully balanced on his side with his fingers in Jefferson’s hair while he attempts to cook, Jefferson with finger painting and macaroni art, Jefferson pushing his child on a swing, Jefferson ruling the motherfucking fuck out of the PTA and packing celery and peanut butter in the lunch because he knows Toad hates raisins and driving Toad to softball practice and fucking gloating over at Lee and his kid who happens to be on the opposite team and taking a year to be volunteer coach and bringing the kids out for pizza and....well, fuck.

Jefferson tosses the magazine aside and is glad that Hamilton is too distracted by his phone to notice the myriad of emotions coursing over Jefferson’s face. When did Jefferson decide he liked kids? Or that he might be good with kids? And when the hell did thinking about _a kid_ becoming thinking about _Toad_?

“Mr. Hamilton, we’re ready for you,” the nurse calls and Hamilton groans and slaps his hands down on both sides of the chair, squeezing his way up into standing again--and milking it a little bit, Jefferson is beginning to think. He’s forgot to put his phone back and it goes tumbling into the floor and he curses, but Jefferson has already bent to grab it and hands it back to him with a little “Here you go, babe” that’s out of his mouth before he can stop it. Hamilton just takes the phone and puts it in his pocket, waddles off like he didn’t hear it and Jefferson, after mentally smacking himself at least three times, follows him into the back.

The little room is similar to the one they were in at the very beginning of all of this--hell, it may even be the same room. The walls are still sterile, the sheet of paper thin material over the bed still crisp, and there’s even the same painting of a neutral array of violets and daisies. In essence, it is clean, efficient, and not at all comfortable. Hamilton scoots his way up onto the bed with a practiced kind of familiarity and goes about swishing his ass from one side to the other until he finds a comfortable position. He falls over on his back and stares at the ceiling, fiddling with his fingers over his belly.

Jefferson sticks his hands in his pockets and walks a bit further into the room, leaning against the wall perpendicular to Hamilton’s bed. Hamilton thrums his fingers onto of the back of his other hand and then slides his gaze Jefferson’s way. He eyes go questioning, then glaring, and he jerks his chin to the chair next to him with a little grunt of authority. Jefferson sighs and walks forward, finally sinking down into the chair propped up carefully by the bedside--the de facto Father Chair, and doesn’t that make him uncomfortable?

He leans forward with his elbows on his knees and his hands, much like Hamilton’s, clasped in front of him. They sit in silence for another minute before the door opens with a loud click and Seabury strolls inside, carrying, but not really examining, Hamilton’s folder. “Well, Alexander, my favorite patient!” he says with what could be fake politeness or an actual affinity borne of something similar to _he’s my enemy, but he’s MY enemy._

“Mr. Jefferson,” Seabury says and holds out his hand. Jefferson shakes it, but lets go at the absolutely minimum second. “So, today’s the day, huh?” He turns back to Hamilton. “Finally going to set that little mystery to rest.” He sits down beside the bed on the opposite side and pumps some antibacterial from the wall, covering his hands in it while he speaks. “Of course, I’ve known the gender for quite awhile now and let me tell you, I am _thrilled_ to let you know what your little kid will be. So...nothing’s amiss recently?”

Hamilton grunts a no.

“No unusual discomfort? Pain?”

“Nope.”

“Have you been eating well? Taking the vitamins?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. I’ll believe you.” A cheeky little grin at Jefferson. “Even though this is my _most_ difficult patient. Alright, you know the drill. I’ll step outside and you can get yourself dressed and then we’ll start an ultrasound. I’ll check everything out, make sure you are as good on the inside as you say you are on the outside and then we’ll let you get a glimpse of Little Ham. How’s that sound?”

“I hate you,” Hamilton mutters to himself, but begins to shuffle his way back up again. Seabury just grins and stands, leaves the room.

Jefferson debates on whether he should reach a hand to help Hamilton, who is swinging his body to stand up again, but decides better. It’s not like Hamilton is one to ever want the overt help. But, still, he rises himself and turns around to give Hamilton privacy.

“Son of a bitch,” Hamilton mutters at him as Jefferson’s ears pick up the sound of clothing coming off to be replaced by the hospital gown. “It’s not like I’m a nun or something. I don’t give a fuck if you look at me.”

“Nah,”  Jefferson responds, hoping the dick move will actually set Hamilton at ease, “I’m not into fatties.”

Hamilton snorts. “I’m going to punch you later for that,” he chuckles and then makes an _oof_ sound as his body returns to the bed. Jefferson turns back and quickly decides that hospital-light-green does not suit Hamilton’s complexion at all. He sits in his chair. Hamilton scoots his ass again. They wait. Seabury comes back inside.

The doctor has the same plastic smile he wore when last in the room and he sits down on his stool quickly, rolling over to beside Hamilton. He starts poking and prodding, going over a general exam and Jefferson keeps his gaze sternly on the wall above Hamilton’s head and not the moving and rustling of the gown. Soon, though, Seabury has the ultrasound machine out and is covering Hamilton’s stomach in goo that Hamilton looks none too thrilled about. He swings to Jefferson and says, “You are never telling anyone about this ever.”

“Ever,” Jefferson agrees.

“ _Ever_ ,” Hamilton secures.

Seabury chuckles. “This is natural. Nothing to be ashamed about. Pregnancy is a very beautiful thing.” Hamilton glowers at him and Seabury falters. “Well, beautiful on most omegas. Okay, here we go. You watching?”

Seabury puts the probe gently down on Hamilton’s skin and the machine comes to life. For a second, Hamilton glances at the image as it solidifies and then he turns his head, toward Jefferson’s side of the room with his eyes that lower and refuse to look at anything in particular, but still glare. “Still looks healthy,” Seabury narrates. “And oh! Active one, huh? Give you much trouble kicking?”

“Sometimes,” Hamilton mutters. His fingers twitch and he curls his nails into the paper below him.

“Looks a good weight.” Hamilton swallows. “Body looks well formed.” He squeezes his eyes shut. “Heartbeat’s strong.”

In a rush of movement, Hamilton shoots his fingers out to Jefferson’s side, grabbing his right hand and clamping down on it. Jefferson gives a tiny grunt that Seabury ignores and squeezes right back.

“What a thing to look at, huh?” Seabury continues and underneath his palm, Hamilton’s fingers are shaking. Jefferson moves slowly, like through great currents of water, and threads their fingers together properly, holding on with just that little bit of strength. “Do you want to look?” Seabury asks.   
  
“No,” Hamilton says, his voice strained and higher than it should be.

“...oh,” Seabury responds. “Alright, well, I’ll just tell you the gender, then. Congratulations, you’re going to have--”

Hamilton panics. “ _Don’t tell me_ ,” he hisses and practically snaps Jefferson’s hand with pressure. And that’s not the only thing that hits Jefferson like a wall of stone pushing him flat on his back. No, there is something else equally as strong, as important, and as terrifying. Hamilton slams his aura into Jefferson like a raging storm and it cascades over him like thunder and lightning and tiny tinkling bits of hail. Hamilton scratches at him and crawls up upon him like a cat scrambling up a tree and he flings his being at Jefferson so wild and fast, Jefferson can barely gather breath to react. He curls himself up into Jefferson, something feral and hissing and he _asks_ in something heavier than any word of _please_ and Jefferson, well, he can’t deny Alex anything and so, of course, he floods himself out as well, covers the air in a blanket of security and stability that he doesn’t quite feel when he is alone in his home now, if ever he did, but that breaks and flourishes in the presence of Alex, that grows for him strong and unbreakable and that is what Jefferson shares now, the sense that no matter what, it’ll be alright. No matter what water comes, they will remain floating.

“He tells me,” Alex says, voice strong even though his fingers are still shaking. He lifts his eyes to Jefferson's, meets them even though they are glistening and vulnerable and Jefferson gives him a tiny nod, reflecting his own fragility back at him.

“Alright,” Seabury says, breaking the reclusive den they have created in the corner of the room. “Can you see?”

Jefferson lifts his head, nods again. The image on the screen comes into focus for him and he can see the baby flopping about, moving no doubt in response to Alex’s own distress. He’s curling back and forth, moving four limbs, curling fists, kicking feet. And Jefferson sees what he needs to see.

“It looks like…” Jefferson returns his gaze to Hamilton and smiles, “a toad.”

Hamilton remarkably lets out a bitter laugh. “Fuck you,” he breathes. “What is it, Thomas? Just tell me.”

Thomas grimaces and tries to put on a brave front.

“It’s a boy, isn't it?” Hamilton asks.

Thomas brings his eyes back up to look at the baby, sees it still moving about, healthy and new. “I can tell you one thing,” he says and lifts Hamilton’s hand to pat it with his free one. “It doesn’t look anything like Laurens.”

“Jesus,” Hamilton breathes.

“It’s not him, alright? And it’s not you. He’s beautiful. He’s sassy. He’s yours. And…” He smiles slowly and runs his thumb over Hamilton’s hand smoothly, with as much care as he puts into the growing aura around them that is melting at the edges from Thomas and Alex into something unique that they are forming together. “And,” he say with the conviction of his own heart, “he looks like a Toad.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, this is not the last time they will talk about Toad in regards to the fear of looking like John. There's plenty more stuff to come about John and his baby!


	11. Starting to Miss You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the lovely hamiltrashed, who betaed this on the fly when my normal beta was off doing a job interview (GOOD LUCK, OMG!). 
> 
> Also, this chapter is kind of a doozy and there is a bunch of angst and some definite trials. For anyone who wants more information before they read, scroll to the end notes for a chapter summary.***

Work keeps them away from one another, kicking up a storm into activity that reaches a boiling point all at once. There is a large row in one of the meetings over the omega bill with Adams leading the traditionalist charge and Hamilton all but smothers him with his stomach to get him to shut up. The conclusion is rather tenuous at best and Washington sends them back to revise the thing before they try again with a kind, but exasperated word to be more willing to compromise. As if Alexander Hamilton will compromise.

Still, Jefferson sees the point that if they _do_ bend and give in to a couple of Adams opinions, they will have won some of their own and continuing to fight with him will only keep the status quo alive and nothing will change. Of course, Hamilton doesn’t agree and they have several rows themselves over work, which isn’t really productive for fostering the new kind of blended aura thing they have going on or Jefferson’s growing frustration that there is more than one way to shut Hamilton up.

In fact, he’s thinking about that a lot lately. Ways to close Hamilton’s mouth, with one particular one standing out and leading him to quite frequent dreams about how Hamilton may or may not taste like pineapple. He is different every time in the dreams--fiery Hamilton before any of this happened, sassy pregnant Hamilton, Hamilton barely showing, Hamilton with a child in a crib in the corner, Hamilton and how he looked at the club, wet and salacious. But every time, they end the same way, Jefferson descending upon him like he has a right to, pressing his mouth to Hamilton’s, feeling the fire of him as it surges through his veins and down into the very bottom of his toes, burning away doubt and loneliness like sun burning drops of rain.

But that particular line of thought is reserved for night, when Jefferson’s brain is too tired to catch up to himself enough to know what is and what isn’t good for him. During the day, well, Jefferson has always been a reasonable man. And the reasonable thing to do here is to ignore any and all implications about what may or may not have happened in Seabury’s office, after work hours in the quiet of dusk, at his own house, in the mall, or at that damned club. No, Jefferson needs to stop thinking about all of that. Because thinking about it only leads to one conclusion which is inevitably making an ass out of himself when he knows that 1) Hamilton won’t want him after the baby is born, 2) Hamilton probably doesn’t want him NOW, 3) Jefferson has no right to take advantage of as fragile a situation as this one and 4) It’s fucking Alexander Hamilton. What the fuck is he thinking?

So he keeps his tongue to himself and his hands firmly wrapped around pens instead of other things and _focuses_ on the bill nearly to the detriment of his own intellect. And they brush by one another, equally keeping their distance.

That is, until late one night--so like how it all began when Jefferson walked across the little space separating them and Hamilton spilled so aggressively the news that Toad was on his way--Hamilton pauses by the door, a heavy set frown on his face and something akin to fear in his eyes as he whispers quietly, “I think I need to go to the hospital.”

“What?” Jefferson asks, having not heard him at first as his brain quickly replays the sentence until it make sense in his head. Hamilton swallows and only now does Jefferson notices his hand on his stomach, does Jefferson make a quick calculation to determine that even if he’s a bit early, it’s still within time for this to be--

“Iiiiii think I’m going to have a baby,” Hamilton clarifies and boy, does that snap Jefferson into action. He stands up quickly and the rolling chair flies back and smacks itself into the wall, but Jefferson pays it no mind. He rushes to the corner, grabs both of their coats and is only half aware of the words spilling out of his mouth.

“Alright. Here, put your coat on. Do you know which hospital you prefer? Nevermind, don’t stand and think about it. You can tell me while we’re driving.”

Hamilton whimpers softly, but follows Jefferson and even though he can’t move quite as quickly as the other man, he manages until they are in Jefferson’s car and Jefferson is pulling out of the parking garage like a maniac. “I feel…,” Hamilton trails, “really funny.”

“It’s normal,” Jefferson assures him and hopes that it’s so.

Luckily for them, the road is fairly clear and the rush hour traffic has finally died down. And while Jefferson can’t really get them there as quickly or efficiently as the crow may fly, he does make it in the least amount of time that a car could reasonably do. He parks straight away in as close of an open spot as he can find and while Hamilton clambers out of the car, looking like he’s in a bit more pain that Jefferson’s mind tells him he should be, Jefferson catalogues all the reasons why he shouldn’t be panicking and tries to suppress all his gut reactions that what is in front of him is his, when he never was and never will be.

Still, they are friends and Jefferson has agreed to do this, is Hamilton’s de facto support system when he has rejected everyone else and oh, wouldn’t it be better to have Lafayette here with him? Washington or Mulligan or anyone else. But it’s not any of them. It’s Jefferson. And while Jefferson feels like he is beginning to unravel at the seems, like rivulets breaking through dam cracks, he also knows without a doubt that he is here for him. That this is what they have been waiting for. Been leading to all along.

Hamilton walks slowly to the entrance. So slowly in fact that Jefferson wraps an arm around him to support him as they stumble their way there and if Hamilton’s skin looks pale under the discoloring parking lights, well, Jefferson can’t dwell on that. He won't.

They make it inside, through the automatic swishing doors and it doesn’t take the nurses very long at all to get Hamilton into a wheelchair and point him toward the patients-only secured door. Thomas’ thoughts war with him like writhing snakes. He wants to go, wants to be there, never wants to let Hamilton out of his sight. He can’t imagine Alex without him, even though he knows Hamilton is strong enough to do this on his own. But like he said before, what feels like forever ago, even if Alex can, does he have to? Must he be alone through it, stumbling and scratching and fighting with nothing on either side of him but dark loneliness?

No. No, Thomas can go with him, can rush through the forest with him, can howl with him, can give in to this feeling bubbling in his gut that Hamilton is not just another lone wolf, not just a person that he keeps around for the hell of it, but something more--a piece of twine interwoven into Jefferson’s own life string and so tangled now as to never be separated. And yet…

And yet, he has to separate. Doesn’t he? Doesn’t he have to leave to save himself from whatever pain he can feel coming? Isn’t it better to stay here, in the waiting room filled with concerned, but distant relatives? Here, where he can pretend to be just a coworker, just a helper, just a friend. Here where the thoughts can stay locked down into the tiny box in his mind, padlocked for privacy. Here where he doesn’t have to think of…

But the choice is taken from him. Hamilton, his skin now ashen and, yes, pale even under the florescent lights, reaches behind himself even as the nurse begins to wheel him away, reaches blindly until Jefferson’s muscles, like electrical currents snapping from an on switch, jump to find him, thread their fingers together until he is holding Hamilton’s clammy palm as the wheelchair moves and he steps to follow it.

They bring them to a room. It’s not as bright as the hallway and the long bed, half propped up, is intimidating and sets Jefferson to wary. The light from the hallway spills onto the floor and the medical lamp in the corner shines cooly. The walls are off-white, the bumpy ceiling cream. A vital signs monitor sits in the corner, off, wires hanging from it and ready for use.

The nurse parks the wheelchair and offers to help Hamilton up, but he bats her away, rises on his own to barely make it to the bed. He adjusts himself poorly and lets his limbs fall tired around him, his head propped up, his breathing heavy. There is a bedside chair, but Jefferson can’t sit.

Instead, he stands next to Hamilton, takes his hand gingerly, but squeezes strong. Hamilton’s eyes break open to look at him, dark wells that suck the air from Thomas’ lungs. His hair is a mess, strands plastered to his forehead with sweat, half of it in and half of it out of a ponytail. His clothes are rattled, crinkled, falling uselessly around him. His lips are parted and dry and he barely reacts when the nurse starts to take his vitals with a little worrisome frown to her face.

The doctor comes in, quick, and they bustle about, but Jefferson only watches them from the periphery. Instead, his entire focus is on Hamilton, on the darkness of his eyes reflecting a night sky that Jefferson desperately wants to be under.

He reaches up slowly, lets his fingertips guide his touch as he brushes the strands back from Hamilton's’ face like he had once fantasized of doing, but not like this. Not now. Not like…

“Take care of him,” Hamilton whispers, softly into gray light, and Thomas’ consciousness fractures into a million little pieces as Alex’s eyes roll back closed and his body slumps against the bed.

The hospital staff jump into action. The doctor pushes Jefferson away, who stumbles back, not in control of his body. The nurse, who had been taking blood pressure, snaps to listen to the doctor as her voice filters in through Jefferson’s ears like the first drops of the tsunami of emotions crashing down as the box in his mind dissolves and opens. _“Get me oxygen.”_

Three images enter Jefferson’s mind all at once, jumbled and tangled, but equally vivid and with each his heart pounds through his chest until he feels like it is him who can’t breathe. _The rails on the bed go up with a nasty click as the nurse snaps them into place. “Blood pressure?” Low. Too low._

The first is old. So old. He has seen it so many times in his mind’s eye it barely takes any effort to conjure. The room spins around him--he feels it in his bones--and it was hot. So hot. And she was quiet, softly whimpering into the air as he held her, and he was looking at her and he was thinking--he remembers it so clearly even though they have all silenced him now, even though he has come to believe in the screeching of their voices--- _she is like me. She is the only thing like me_.

But now she is dead--dead before she even began--and the tsunami is hitting, the water choking him up and pounding harder than stone and what he wouldn’t give to have her again, to hold her so small in his hand, but there is the other her, isn’t there? The other woman he would never meet dead, but enough of this, the sound of water breaking, the shivering of this image that will haunt him forever. There is another, brand new and glittering, but never bright. _Okay, we’re going. Get surgery room nineteen open. Tell them we’re starting any minute now…_

Thomas. He is holding another. There is a toddler on his hip, same as he had imagined when they were at Seabury’s and he was flipping through that fucking magazine only now...only now…

The breakfast is cooking on the stove. The eggs are in the pan and Toad has just started to eat solid food now, so Jefferson refrains from adding spices or cheese. He’ll like it plain and he’ll eat it well. He’s such a good child, even if he’s started to shine his spitfire personally, mostly with getting into Jefferson’s shit.

The house is the same, but the back guest room has been turned into a nursery with neat little blues, but also pinks, because there’s no way in fuck Jefferson is restraining his child. Toad can be what Toad wants to be. And Toad will be loved, that’s true. Above the crib is a mobile that spins little American flags and one French flag that Uncle Lafayette insisted on and of course Jefferson let him. Where would he be without Lafayette, Washington, and Mulligan? They all had to pull together for this.

There’s a stuffed toy that sits on the dresser, a bright green frog that guards the little stereo system inside that Jefferson pulls out in the evening. Thank Lafayette for his diligence and patience as he stayed up with Hamilton all those nights ago, before Toad was even one spec of a cell, and recorded hour after hour after hour of the damn Federalist Papers. And thank Hamilton, too, wherever his spirit is now, for being so goddamn vain as to record the papers for historical record.

They listen to them. Every night. So Toad can at least hear his father’s voice once. And so that Jefferson, too, can remember.

Above the bed is a little tackboard, too, with things he and Lafayette have discovered hidden in the boxes Hamilton wanted to burn. Jefferson has found Laurens’ dogtags from the army, an assortment of signs from his causes, has clipped and framed his signature. He places them there, above Toad so he can have all of them.

And he sings to him in the morning. Sometimes sweet carolina melodies, sometimes virginian lullabies, sometimes caribbean flare. And he keeps the adoption papers in his safe, secure and crisp. And they move on. And they learn to live, to navigate the holes in the roads of their lives.

The room is empty. The doctor and the nurse have wheeled Hamilton away and Jefferson is left in the cold, gray room in silence. But that doesn’t stop the last image from filtering in, from joining the cracked and crumbling collage of all of this--the image of now. The image of Hamilton’s body still, eyes closed, limbs unmoving, stomach swollen. That is not Hamilton, no. That is never what Jefferson thinks of when he thinks of Alex. He thinks of the strong man in the club, the fire and fortitude of him. He wants to say--like they all say-- _he’s a fighter. He’ll get through this._ But fuck it, Jefferson knows better than anyone those patte little sayings often turn untrue.

And Jefferson has lost so much. So much and with so much irony, because wasn’t it almost exactly like this? And Toad...the little boy who hasn’t even had a chance yet, what has he lost already? But Jefferson will be damned if history repeats itself, will do everything he can to stop it.

But even those thoughts, even those, are not the image that brings to bear in Jefferson’s mind, aren’t the thing held so close to his chest and released into this room like clouds breaking across the sky. The image comes up unbidden again and won’t let him rest. Hamilton’s eyes so dark they steal his soul, the way his hair had felt in the tips of Jefferson’s fingers, his lips parted not in pain, but in something else and Jefferson whispering to a room not for the sick and the injured, but for them in something like a new life, like a final tying of their auras, a finally coming together--“I love you.”

 _I love you. I love you_.

He says it out loud to the empty room. And long before the nurses come to take him back to the waiting room, long before he has to collect himself for the arduous journey of worry, he breaks down. And he cries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***Summary of Chapter: Hamilton goes into labor and Jefferson takes him to the hospital, but something is wrong and he passes out and is wheeled into surgery. Although Jefferson doesn't know if Hamilton will live or not, he imagines him dead and taking care of Toad, so there's like mini death fic. Fantasy death fic? Jefferson also remembers some of his past, but there are no full details.


	12. When You are Right Here, but Impossible to See

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some angsty Jefferson and nail-biting waiting time, just as a warning. But there is some snowflake!Lafayette. And, on another note, you mmmmiiiiiggggghhhhhhtttttt check back on Sunday because there just mmmmmiiiiiggggggghhhhhttttttt be a surprise chapter posted in the middle of the regular schedule. ;)

Jefferson gathers himself quickly--quicker than he would like to, if he’s being honest with himself, and retreats to the too-quiet waiting room, punctured only by the occasional cough. He sits down in the front row, in the middle section that most are ignoring, to be as visible as possible when the doctors come.

Not that they will come for some time, Jefferson thinks cooly. Emergency surgeries are typically long and if Alex remains in the shape he is in, well, they won’t know conclusive evidence for a while now. Jefferson wonders if they will tell him anyway since he’s nothing to Hamilton, barely a coworker. Of course, with the way he’s acting…

But no. He’s tired of these thoughts. They are wearing and he feels heavy in the face of them. No, there are other things to turn his mind to. Practical things.

He emails Washington from his phone, deleting the little notification at the bottom that mentions the fact. He composes the email crisply, efficiently, effectively. He informs him that Hamilton is incapacitated and may be out of work for some time, that Jefferson will happily take over ownership of the omega bill until Hamilton’s hospital release (there is no “if” here, he is careful of that), but that he might need to have flex time to work outside of the office should he need to.

He presses send and lets a deep breath go.

The waiting room filters back in around him. Others occasionally rise when nurses call them. Relatives settle back in chairs. A bored teenager with his legs spread all over the tile floor yawns as he taps on his phone. A worried wife in the corner bites her nails. An injured child begins to cry.

Jefferson puts his elbow on his knees and bends his head down, rubs at the hair at the back of his neck. Beside him are magazines and one is the same that he had picked up at Seabury’s when he had imagined…

Fuck, he needs his laptop. Or something. _Anything_.

He starts checking his emails on his phone, begins a mental tally of how many times Adams can be as dumb as a brick, how many messages Burr has sent that mean literally nothing when you take out all his buzzwords like _synergy_ , all the times that Madison has mentioned “the South.” They pass the time, but dammit do they not help hold back the flood waters that keep trickling through Jefferson’s hands like Hamilton’s breath passing through his lips before his eyes closed…

“I should slap you all the way to Auvergne,” a voice filters in and Jefferson feels warm with companionship and hot with anger at the same time, “but non. You look like you have enough on your mind.”

Lafayette sits down next to him and crosses his legs near delicately, setting down a bag by his feet. “Tell me of him, mon ami. What is going on?”

Jefferson frowns. “What are you doing here, Lafayette? How did you even find…” He groans. “Washington. Washington told you.”

“George and I are rather close these days,” Lafayette agrees, propping one arm up on the armrest and entwining his fingers together. “Or have you not noticed with how much you are eying Alexander?”

Jefferson narrows his eyes. “Now isn’t the time for that. You _do_ realize that, don’t you?”

Lafayette has the good sense to look bashful. “Yes, I suppose I do. How...how is he?”

“I don’t know,” Jefferson answers honestly.

“I take it that the labor has not gone well.”

“He didn’t even make it into…” Jefferson trails off and runs a hand up into his curls, staring off in the direction of the ill-fated room they had found themselves in not so long ago. “I don’t know what happened. He said the baby was coming and I got him here, as fast as I could. On the way he said he felt strange and I was hoping it was just...but there wasn’t anything I could do anyway. We got him in and they sent him back to a room right away, but...he passed out. That’s all I know. They wheeled the bed away. Said ‘emergency surgery.’”

“And they haven’t talked to you since?”

“No,” Jefferson admits and frowns deeply to keep his mouth from quivering.

“...ah,” Lafayette says softly.

“He told me take care of Toad. That’s the last thing he said.”

“The baby?”

“Yes.”

“You named him Toad?”

Jefferson chuckles, but it fades quickly and he has to swallow down the lump in his throat. “It’s a nickname. Nevermind.” He fidgets with his pants. “He said to take care of him like…”

“None of that,” Lafayette assures him and reaches over to squeeze his shoulder. “I’m sure it won’t be so dire.”

Jefferson nods, his voice having left him. They sit there for a minute until Lafayette carefully removes his hand. “I’ll be right back,” he says softly and stands up, retreats somewhere that Jefferson can’t see him. Jefferson covers his eyes with his hand and squeezes out the moisture at the corners of them, letting only what little bit he needs to let go release like some kind of pressure valve spilling steam.

Lafayette comes back a bit later with a packet of kleenex and a bottle of water that he sits down next to Jefferson. “What else can I do?” he asks.

Jefferson glowers at him, but swipes the kleenex and blows his nose. “Keep everyone away,” he says and then nods to himself to solidify the decision. “I...I think I need to be alone and if--” He squares his jaw. “ _\--when_ Alexander wakes up, he’s not going to want anyone to see him like this. So can you take care of everyone else?”

“Oui,” Lafayette says with a nod, “je peux.”

“Okay,” Jefferson says softly. “Then...that would be a great help. Thank you. And...I’m sorry we’ve been so horrible to you.”

“Do not worry your pretty head over it, mon ami,” Lafayette assures him and pats his shoulder a second time. “You were both very stressed and to be quite frank, I liken my friendship to the both of you like I would a friendship to a couple bears. You are very grumpy.”

Jefferson chuckles. “That we are. But...I appreciate it.”

“Of course you do. What is not to appreciate?” Lafayette smiles and then reaches for the bag that he left beside Jefferson. “Here is an overnight bag. I imagined neither of you thought to make one. It has fresh clothes for the both of you and some provisions. You will _also_ need to take care of yourself, Thomas.”

Jefferson takes the bag gingerly and notes that the medium duffle is heavy and full with objects. He wonders how long it would have taken to pack something like this and he can almost guarantee that Lafayette wouldn’t have had time to finish this from the moment Washington got the email to now. Which means…

“You’ve been working on this for quite a bit, haven’t you?” Jefferson asks him.

Lafayette inclines his head. “Well, neither of you were going to do it, were you?”

“Thanks,” Jefferson says softly, unsure of what else to say. Lafayette just nods at him and starts to walk toward the door when Jefferson calls him to a halt. Lafayette stops in tracks, eyebrows raised to listen to what Jefferson has to say and it might be selfish and it might be rash, but Jefferson is feeling particularly determined right here in this moment and he’s not about to let either Alex or Toad slip away from him, so he stands, digs in his pocket feverishly and holds out his keys to Lafayette. Lafayette takes them with a questioning gaze.

“Do you want to help?” Jefferson ask and even before Lafayette has finished nodding, Jefferson is continuing, “then go to my apartment. I don’t use the back guest room. Take the furniture and sell it and here.” He digs in his other pocket for his wallet and removes his credit card, handing it over. “Buy a crib. And other things, too. I know Alex hasn’t and we’ll need to be ready. And get a mobile for above the crib. And put an American flag on it. And a French flag, too. And get a tackboard for the wall. And a green stuffed frog.”

Lafayette chuckles. “Maybe you should write this down.”

Jefferson shakes his head. “No, just...just make it a home. For him. Okay?”

“Okay,” Lafayette agrees, “okay, I can do that. Thank you. For letting me help.”

“Thank you _for_ helping.”

Lafayette nods again and tucks the keys and card into his own pocket. Once more, he claps Jefferson on the shoulder and then gives him a little wave as he heads out the door. Left alone, Jefferson returns to his seat to wring his hands in front of him in worry. He feels slightly more composed now that he has talked to someone about the issue, but still the agitation eats at him and the images so close to his mind of what a life would be like without Hamilton are torture. He’s about to stand and begin pacing the waiting room when a nurse approaches him and calls him back into a more secure room. He nearly trips on himself in his eagerness to follow.

“I’m so sorry,” she says by way of greeting and Jefferson’s blood-pressure spikes sky high until his mind catches up with his ears. “Your friend said you haven’t been updated on the situation. We apologize. There was some miscommunication. A nurse was already supposed to have informed you--”

“That’s fine,” Jefferson cuts her off. “Is he…?”

The nurse nods to herself and then offers him a seat. Jefferson sits at the edge of it and motions for her to begin. “He’s in surgery right now. There was a complication with delivery and he has internal bleeding that the doctors are attempting to mend. He’s been hooked up for transfusion and they are attempting to delivery the baby as quickly as possible. As of right now, the prognosis for the baby is good.”

“And Alex?”

Her smile falters and she gives him kind eyes. “It’s touch and go.”

“When, um...when will we know?”

“We’re not certain. The doctors expect to deliver the baby in the next half hour. After that, the real work will begin. We will do everything in our power.”

“I’m staying here,” Jefferson informs her. “As long as I have to.”

“Of course. But, Mr. Jefferson, no matter what happens, I imagine this will not be a quick stay. You should prepare yourself for that. And when one or both of them is recovering, we will need to watch them for a time.”

Jefferson nods and sets his jaw, trying not to let the growing panic show. “Keep me posted,” he says.

***

The morning comes. Jefferson blinks his tired eyes open and for once in his life, the weariness is showing--bags heavy under his eyes, limbs lethargic, crinkled clothing stuck to his skin. The sleep he has gotten has been minimal, propped up in the corner of the waiting room as he drifts in and out between exhaustion and fear. Throughout the night, he has eaten some, although no one would call it filling or healthy. He has drank the water bottle Lafayette bought for him and has downed Advil from the hospital store for his growing headache.

Washington has emailed back his sympathies. Lafayette has stopped back by a second time to give him his laptop and other necessities to remain active at work, even though both Lafayette and Washington have quietly informed him that that should not be on his list of concerns at the moment. And, the biggest news of all, Toad is born.

Jefferson hasn’t seen him yet. He’s not sure if he even wants to before...well, before he knows. And even if he did request it, it’s impossible right now. The nurses tell him that the baby is stable, but that there are several concerns they have regarding his health. They are giving him additional tests, watching over him, treating him as best they can. Although he is alive, although he will _remain_ alive, the night has not been easy, and his fragile body is showing the toll.

There has been no word on Hamilton, not good or ill. Although with each passing moment, Thomas assumes it is a blessing that a doctor hasn’t walked down the hallway with condolences on his lips. No news is good news. And that is how Jefferson has spent the night, in fitful sleep with fitful dreams and fitful worries upon waking. Except for one, this is the worst night of his life. And god, does he hope that it doesn’t climb higher in the rankings.

It’s 8:45 AM when he receives news. A doctor walks from the back, surgery mask still on, her left hand pressing into her right as it makes a fist and withdraws from obvious work. And Jefferson knows this is for him and not for anyone else. The way the woman moves, the way she scans the room, the way she is searching for someone in dire stress. This woman has been in surgery all night. This woman is looking for one half of an equation.

Jefferson stands from his camp in the corner and the doctor sees him, gives him a quick up and down and walks over. Jefferson can’t see her expression through the mask--if it is smile or frown, relief or pity. And he wishes, just this once, that she wasn’t a beta, but something he could _read_. That there was an aura he could sense that could tell him sadness, fear, happiness, or pride. But there is nothing. Just her even steps and the wood of her eyes hard like diamonds. She stops before him and finishes rubbing at her hands. She lifts them both to the back of her head to untie the mask as she begins to speak.

“Mr. Thomas Jefferson?”

“Yes.”

“You are Mr. Hamilton’s emergency contact?”

“Yes.”

“Good. My name is Dr. Eliza Schuyler. We’re done with the surgery.” The mask comes free and she wads it up in her hands, gives him the thinnest of smiles. “Took all night, but he’s stable.” The relief floods over Jefferson so hard and so thick that his knees shake and he has to slide back into his seat as she talks. “He lost a lot of blood and so he’s going to need quite the recovery time. We have him sedated to help his body recover from the trauma. He’s set up in a hospital room on the third floor if you would like to see him. You can sit with him if you like, but we are requesting that you keep visitations from others to a minimum. He needs to have as little stimulus as possible.”

“But I can see him?” Jefferson breathes. “He’s okay?”

“He’s not great,” she says with a little chuckle. “But he’ll be right as rain as soon as you know it. And they tell me the baby is doing just fine, too. Rough night, but we all made it through.”

“Thank you,” Jefferson tells her and puts a hand over his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut as his brain settles down from its frantic scramblings. “ _Thank you_. What room?”


	13. Upon Your Waking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys like this one! And the next chapter has some Toad stuff in it!

The room is a cool blue, the wallpaper something of sky. There is a window in the corner, bright above the city, and four chairs surround the bed like they are waiting for people to arrive, loved ones to gather around and gawk at the new life, to gather up the little one and talk to the parents in hushed, excited tones. It’s the postpartum ward after all, the nurses milling about with news of weights and heights and _look at all the toes_.

But in here, it is quiet. Secluded from the bustle of the born and ready. In here, it is only Alexander.

He’s lying on his back in the hospital bed, flat and all the tension gone from his muscles. His hands at his sides are limp, his eyes closed, and his hair has fanned out across the pillow they have propped underneath his head--flying in as many directions and with as many velocities as Jefferson feels his heart is beating. There are monitors hooked up to him, little wires and tubes attached to his skin. Everything hums softly, echoes _living, living, living_ in quiet beats and measures.

Jefferson steps into the room, half afraid to see him wake up and half afraid not to. He walks with intentionally soft, vulnerable steps that leave no sound in the room among the machines, but when he reaches Alex’s side, it feels like an earthquake. He swallows and looks down at him, his pale skin, his even breathing and the too lightness of his muscles.

“He’s alright,” a voice says and Thomas turns to see a nurse in the doorway. She smiles softly in apology. “He looks a little pale, but he lost a lot of blood. He had to have a transfusion, so this is all normal recovery. And the rest of it, well, he’s under sedation. He should wake up anytime now. He might be groggy at first. That’s also to be expected. But here in a few hours, he’ll start seeming like himself again. We’ll have to keep him for observation, of course. Will probably be several days. The baby, too. Do you want to see the baby?”

“No,” Jefferson says quietly with a shake of his head. He turns back to the man before him. “Not before Alex wakes up.”

“Alright,” she says evenly from behind him. “The call button is right there by the bed. If either of you need anything…”

“Of course,” Jefferson mutters and waits to hear the soft pad fall of her steps leave before he sits down on the corner of the bed. He reaches out and touches Hamilton’s arm right below the elbow, feels it clammy underneath his hand. “You better wake up,” he mutters and runs his thumb over the skin there. “If you leave me to do this entire omega bill by myself, I’ll find your ghost and murder you.” He gives a soft little smile that isn’t answered back and then immediately frowns. “Just...just wake up. For me.”

Hamilton remains quiet and sedated, so Jefferson does what he can. He reaches up to gather Hamilton’s hair from its million directions, gathers it and lays it down comfortably underneath his head. He takes the bag that Lafayette brought them and puts it in the corner. He adjusts the pillow, the sheet, the blanket, before standing up and walking to the door, shutting it for privacy. With the small amount of hallway noise blocked off, the room becomes as quiet as a tomb. But no. Jefferson won’t think like that. As quiet as a den. The two of them secluded like they have always been from the world, if by mentality if not physicality.

He returns to the bed and pulls one of the chairs close, grabs an extra blanket from the little closet in the corner and drapes it over himself, pulls his legs up into the chair and lays his head back against the faux-leather surface. He stares at Hamilton for a very long time before he ever falls asleep.

***

The slightest shuffling from the bed wakes Jefferson up from a light sleep and he jerks his neck vertical, blinking to take in his surroundings rapidly. The clock in the corner ticks to 11:30 a.m., but everything else is just as he left it--the door closed, Hamilton’s gathered hair, his loose muscles. Only now they are slowly bunching. Hamilton is not awake yet, but slowly coming out of it. His brow furrows, his fingers twitch, and his dry, parched lips separate. He opens his eyes slowly--the darkness of several layers deep soil--but before he has even managed that action, he speaks. Says one word into the soft, near surreal, hospital air and if Jefferson had guessed, he would have come up with a list of predictable words that Hamilton might utter in a sleep and drug induced state: baby, toad, okay, day, morning, what. Also work, bill, Washington, Lafayette, Mulligan. Also fuck, shit, goddammit, and about five varieties of groans. And of course, topping the list, what Jefferson _expects_ , what Hamilton _should_ say--Laurens.

But he doesn’t say Laurens. Doesn’t say John. Doesn’t say anything at all related to the man that Jefferson still has no doubt that Hamilton loves. No, what he says instead is still a name, still soft like a prayer of intimacy, but it is in no way John’s name. No, it is a quiet spoken “ _Thomas_ ” whispered on the wind. And Jefferson’s blinking intensifies the same as his heart rate.

“ _Thomas_ ,” Hamilton says and then opens his eyes, blinks at the ceiling first, repeats, “Thomas?” and Jefferson reaches forward like lightning to clasp his wrist, to put pressure there to signify his presence.

“I’m here,” Jefferson whispers back and Hamilton’s head turns with great pain of effort to see him. The dark pupils take him in, the irises sparkle, and he looks Jefferson up and down. His rapidly tensing muscles relax and his eyes crinkle in relief. “You’re okay,” Jefferson continues. “You’ll be okay.”

Hamilton swallows roughly and nods and with the hand not occupied in Jefferson’s grip, he lifts his fingers and touches his stomach, looks down and before he can utter the question, Jefferson tells him. “He’s fine, too. Toad. They’re observing him, but he’s perfectly fine. I’m fine. You’re fine. Everyone is good.”

Hamilton nods and swallows again. He lays back and closes his eyes, breathes heavily. “I’m tired…”

“They sedated you. To help you recover. It’s normal.” Jefferson squeezes his wrist and then gives himself this. Allows himself one moment of purely selfish action, one snapshot of affection in this drowning sea of reluctance they have so far created between them. He lifts his hand and touches one strand of hair curled on Hamilton’s forehead, brushes it back with all the growing affinity shining in his soul and Hamilton responds, tilts his head and presses his cheek to Jefferson’s hand.

“So tired, Thomas,” he says again and Jefferson hushes him. He leaves his hands there, connecting on Hamilton’s body until Hamilton’s breath evens out into sleep again, until he falls under once more.

When he does, Jefferson retreats to his chair again, pulls his blanket back up. He watches Alex as he dozes, as his chest rises and falls and this time, sleep is easier.

***

Jefferson wakes again in the early evening, when the light filtering through the thin hospital curtains is starting to wane into dusk. He groans and rubs at his eyes as he shifts in the chair, attempting to find a better angle for the crick in his neck that is starting to bother him. He rotates his head back and forward, reaches around to press fingers into the base of his shoulders where a knot is forming. Stretching, he sits up more thoroughly and glances to the bed where Hamilton is still sleeping. With a sigh of relief that he still looks fine, Jefferson digs for his phone and pulls it out. One text from Lafayette, but otherwise silence. The man is doing his job keeping everyone away, it seems.

Jefferson texts him an update. He had informed him that Hamilton would recover shortly after the doctors gave Jefferson himself the information, so he has been keeping Lafayette in the loop. Still, it’s good to hear positive affirmations every once in awhile and Jefferson tells him that they are all doing fine and not to worry, but to still keep everyone at bay until Hamilton gets his feet under him or tells Jefferson otherwise.

After that, Jefferson gives a quick scan through his email to find many things pressing, but nothing so urgent that it will debilitate the country if he takes a day to answer. He’s halfway through Madison’s email that is so long it’s nearly a treatise on the federal limitations on agricultural chemicals when he hears a stirring from the bed.

Hamilton groans loudly, cussing up a storm this time as he pulls himself into a half sitting position against the pillows. Jefferson smirks over at him fondly. “Morning, sunshine,” he says gruffly.

Hamilton rolls his eyes. “Morning, my ass. How long have I been asleep?”

“Don’t know,” Jefferson admits. “Your surgery was last night. Feeling any better?”

“Less like a mixture between death and cotton candy, yeah.” He winces and then lifts up the covers to peer down his body. “ _That’s_ going to leave a scar.”

“Yeah,” Jefferson agrees with a scoff. “I’m surprised you got out of it, you motherfucker.”

“What happened?”

“Oh, the usual,” Jefferson snips. “Ruptures. Internal bleeding. Near death. Transfusions, the like. You’ll be okay, they say. Although you’ll be here for awhile.”

“And the baby?” Hamilton asks, letting the covers fall down again. “You said he was alright?”

“Yeah. They said he was fine. I haven’t seen him yet, though. I’ve been waiting.”

Hamilton frowns and then pauses to gives Jefferson an up and down. It’s only then that Jefferson conceptualizes how he must look himself, half buried in his stolen blanket, hair most likely a mess and wrinkled clothing…

“How many times have you come back to the hospital, Jefferson?” Hamilton says with a little snort. “You look like something the cat dragged in.”

“Come back?” Jefferson says with a bitter chuckle. “I never left, you asshat.”

Hamilton blinks and then pauses as he’s rearranging himself again. “What do you mean you never left?”

“I’ve been here ever since I brought you in.”

“What?” Hamilton asks, disbelief evident in the puff of his breath. “You didn’t go to _work_?”

Jefferson rolls his eyes and flips the blanket off of himself. He leans forward with his elbows on his knees, sitting over the space between the chair and the bed so he can practically be up in Hamilton’s face. “ _No_ , you dick fucker. I did not go to _work_. You were…” Jefferson frowns. “You know what? Fuck you. For saying _take care of him_ before you passed out. I was worried, you little shitter. _No_ , I did not go to work. I checked my damn email from my phone and I slept in the hospital. Waiting to hear if you’d be _dead_ or not.”

Hamilton frowns back at him. “Well, I’m not dead,” he says snippily and punches the pillow behind him to get it into a better position.

“No, you are not. Thank god.”

Jefferson runs a hand through his hair and then turns away, training his eyes on the closet door handle and not on Hamilton. He brings his hand up to his mouth and holds his knuckles to his lips, staring at the shiny metal of the round handle and willing the pit of butterflies in his stomach to disperse. The silence is deafening. But Hamilton breaks it after a moment.

“You really stayed here?”

“Yes.”

“All night?”

“Yes.”

“And...today?”

“Yeah.”

“Even though I was okay?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Jefferson doesn’t answer, keeps staring straight ahead of him and wonders random and odd things like if the door handle has a lock, if it will rain tomorrow, if the crux of Madison’s email called for a reinstatement of previously lax limitations or if he was just bitching about the current state of agricultural hoops.

“Jefferson--”

“You know why,” he says and even though it’s simple, it feels like the most complicated sentence that has ever left his mouth. There is a pause from behind him, a lengthy bit of silence that extends out into the room like a slow moving mist and then…

“Look at me.”

But Jefferson won’t.

“Jefferson, look at me.”

Still, no.

Hamilton reaches for him, grabs his chin with a firm hand and even through Jefferson’s bullish reluctance, he is flooded with relief that Hamilton’s actions are strong again, that his voice is back to demanding, that his presence is familiar and secure. He lets his head swing around, lets Hamilton win as he turns his neck. But he refuses to meet Hamilton’s eyes that will most likely poison him, drag him under into deep wells of black holes that destroy him bit by bit by bit.

But Hamilton has none of it. He ducks his head and maneuvers Jefferson until they are locked in, two pieces snapped together. And as Jefferson melts into his determined and emotional gaze, he senses it. Little bits at first, but becoming heavier in a flood. The sweet and spicy scent of Hamilton, deep and neon like Caribbean seas. It is different now, for so many reasons and in so many ways. Without Toad, it is hotter, wilder. Jefferson’s nose fills with the sensation of sweat as it drips down the back of his neck, the tinge of sea air, the touch of rough paper under fingertips, the smell of uncapped ink. This is Hamilton. Hamilton as he was before he was ever pregnant, Hamilton as the wild and free and unchained force of nature he always was, but also...not. Also new.

Underneath it all, new smells. New sensations. Something bitter and not quite accumulated yet--the transfusion blood in his veins from some other omega that neither of them will ever know. But also, other things. Other thoughts and other images that cloud Jefferson’s mind, other smells that pour in like concrete hot in night air, wool pressed up close to the nose, honey barbeque wings, and newly cut grass over gravestones and Jefferson barely has time to take it all in, barely has time to catalogue any of it before something devastatingly surprising happens. More surprising than Hamilton pregnant, Hamilton alive, Hamilton coming to him as a form of comfort, bowing to him. Hamilton kisses him. And that right there makes the world stand still.

He bends forward over the small gap between the bed and where Jefferson is arched, elbows still on his knees. Jefferson’s eyes flicker quickly to his expression before Hamilton has tilted himself enough to press their lips together, softly at first, but with growing vigor. His hand lands on the space of Jefferson’s neck and holds there--just like Hamilton, always demanding. His other hand curls into the edge of the bed, fingernails gripping the sheet and that is the last image Jefferson has before his eyes close and he gives in completely.

He parts his lips and Hamilton follows him with a breathy little moan, tongue darting in to touch Jefferson’s own. The hand on his neck is hot and present, Hamilton’s fingers just barely touching curls. Jefferson lifts his own hands, then, wraps one around the back of Hamilton’s neck to pull him in even further and kisses him so hard it might be bruising. Hamilton whimpers and floods his senses with boiling and spicy scents of agreement and Jefferson feels the carefully constructed walls of his own aura fall and burst out into the hospital room.

Under his hands, Hamilton shivers, and the tide of control changes. Jefferson cradles him strongly, if also adoringly, and follows Hamilton’s tongue back into his mouth, tangles their lips and teeth and flesh together, even as he wonders in the back of his mind what Hamilton must think of his own scents--expensive sherry, Asian pears, the smoke of a bar as it fills your nostrils, the smell of dew in the morning reminiscent of rough bark under the hands, dirt under nails, and everything covered over in a little glass shell and muffled like trying to smell a raging fire under water. But also, well, Jefferson can’t ignore this, too. That _he_ is different, the same as Hamilton. That he is no longer just waves and loneliness. That he is also now the smell of a sterile hospital waiting room, Coke like the one Hamilton threw back so vigorously, the first touch of autumn, the smell of leather in the car as he waited and the cloying, bitter scent when Hamilton was wheeled away and when he realized--

Hamilton breaks from him. Snaps his mouth apart from Jefferson’s, looks down and away, even though their hands are still on one another. Jefferson puts pressure on him to pull him back in, to bring Hamilton to his chest and back to his mouth, but Hamilton wiggles outside of his grasp like a snake. He scoots away and then falls on his back on the bed, eyes cast at the wall and away from Jefferson. Jefferson gathers breath to speak, but Hamilton cuts him off before he has a chance.

“I’m hungry,” he says and with a sudden motion, slaps the button to call the nurse. “Jesus, it’s been two days since I ate anything.”

Jefferson blinks and keeps studying him, but Hamilton refuses to bend from his staring match with the wall. Accepting it for what it is, Jefferson stands up with a sigh. “I’ll go to the cafeteria.”

“Hmm,” Hamilton says with a nod and doesn’t give him anything else. 


	14. What's Yours and Also Mine

Jefferson eats in the cafeteria, alone, because he figures that space is probably better for both of them right now. He doesn’t know what he was thinking, honestly, letting Hamilton kiss him like that--although, it does not escape his notice that it was Alexander that made the first move. His Alexander, so soft in the light, hard in the way he kissed, who smelled like…

But no. No, Jefferson won’t let those thoughts in. The cafeteria. Alone. That is what is best. He remembers vividly what Hamilton told him what feels like ages ago at the mall, sitting in the sticky plastic chairs, that when this is all said and done, well, won’t they go back to how it used to be? Won’t they fade into Jefferson and Hamilton again and stop being Thomas and Alexander, stop being something to one another? Wasn’t this companionship build out of necessity and not desire?

And if Alex is acting any differently, well, it’s to be expected. Thomas can’t very well ignore the stressors he’s been under lately, the surgery and sedation. And when he woke up, wasn’t Thomas there? Wasn’t it Thomas and not John, Thomas and not literally anyone else? He reacted with affection at being alive. He reacted to the moment of being with _someone_ , not _someone specific_ and the kiss...Thomas scoffs to himself. He didn’t mean it. That was obvious from how quickly he pulled away like Jefferson had electrocuted him. No, Hamilton didn’t want it. Didn’t want him. Even though he kissed him. Even though, when he woke, it was Thomas’ name on his lips, but no. No, it was just because he saw him and said his name. Because Thomas was there. He has thought Alex’s eyes were closed, but they weren’t. He was mistaken. And if he saw anything in Alex’s gaze, well. He was mistaken about that, too.

So he eats in silence, swallows the hard lumps of what the cafeteria calls food and downs the bottle of water before chucking it into the recycle bin with more heat than is strictly necessary. And when he is ready, when he is composed and the carefully constructed mask that is Thomas Jefferson has been woven back into place, he returns to the room.

Hamilton is sitting up, although he looks like the act is painful. He’s attempting to adjust himself to a better spot and when he sees Jefferson, all his muscles freeze like a deer in the headlights and his eyes go wide and wild. “Hey,” he grunts and then struggles up an inch more.

Jefferson resists the urge to flee to his side and help him, knowing full well that’s the quickest way to lose him forever. Instead, he leans in the doorway, crosses his arms over his chest, and watches. Hamilton reaches behind him to adjust the pillow and then falls back with the exertion. He arranges his covers and drags them up his chest. “Hey,” Jefferson responds back.

“Ate something,” Hamilton mutters. “Feeling less like a bear now.”

Jefferson arches an eyebrow. “Are you, now?”

Hamilton grunts.

“I ate something, too,” Jefferson tells him. “Cafeteria sucks, but it’s something.” He pauses and then slowly drops his hands from his chest, sticks them in his pockets instead. “Look, do you want me to...go?”

Hamilton winces and fiddles with his covers. The silence stretches between them and Jefferson waits it out tick by tick by agonizing tick until… “No,” Alex says and the word sounds like a defeat. “Don’t get any funny ideas, though.”

Jefferson rolls his eyes. “I never do.” He walks further into the room and shuts the door. Hamilton watches him warily until he sees Jefferson curve to the chair by the bed and then pull it away slightly so there is more space between the two of them. He drops down into it and puts his right foot up on his left knee.

Hamilton gives a hefty sigh and looks around the room awkwardly, taking everything in. “Why aren’t there people?” he asks.

“People?”

“Yeah. Crowds of people bugging the shit out of me.”

“Do you _want_ there to be crowds of people bugging the shit out of you?”

“ _No_ ,” Hamilton scoffs.

Jefferson pulls one corner of his mouth up in a smirk. “Then that’s why there are not crowds of people.” The smirk intensifies. “Bugging the shit out of you.” Hamilton gives him a dirty look and Jefferson explains. “I sicced Lafayette on them. He’s a good friend, you know. Just needed something to do to help. He’s your guard dog. He and Washington are keeping the masses at bay.”

“Washington?”

“I had to tell him you weren’t coming to work.”

“And you had to tell Lafayette because?”

“I didn’t. But George can’t keep his mouth shut.” Jefferson sighs. “It’s a pretty good thing, though. Look.” He stands and grabs the bag in the corner, walks it to Hamilton’s bed. “He brought this for us.”

“Us?”

“Well, I was staying here, wasn’t I?”

Hamilton gives a little shrug of acceptance and opens the bag, riffling through it. It doesn’t take him long to make a little half-gasp, half-snort of glee and rip something black and shiny from the depths. Jefferson blinks and sees it’s a battered-up computer and Hamilton hugs it to his chest. “MY LAPTOP,” he squeals and strokes it like a lover. “I can work!”

“Yeah,” Jefferson says with a laugh, “I don’t know if Washington is going to accept many emails from you right now.”

Hamilton rolls his eyes and then sticks his nose in the air. “Well, I’ll send them with high importance,” he informs Jefferson like that fixes the problem. “ _And read receipts._ ”

Jefferson laughs again. “What else is in there? Any soap? I smell like a hippo.”

Hamilton mutters to himself, but keeps digging. He throws out some fresh clothes, a generic book on tax law--although Jefferson is sure that to ask Hamilton, no book on tax law would ever be _generic_ \--a camera with a note attached to it that threatens ass-kicking if baby pictures aren’t had, and a bag of Reese’s. And then, when Hamilton’s hand is deep inside the bag and his head bent in trying to view the contents, Hamilton’s face goes red hot and he sputters.

“What?” Jefferson asks.

“Can we go to war with the French?” Hamilton growls at him.

Jefferson sighs. “What’d he do now?”

Hamilton fights off a bashful look in favor of a pissed off one and grabs the offending object--a CD--out of the bag, tossing it down on the bed. Jefferson picks it up slowly and rotates it to see the artist. “Barry White,” he deadpans.

“Yeah, I’m not laying you down in front of the fire,” Hamilton tells him strictly.

Jefferson rolls his eyes. “As if _you_ would be the one laying _me_ down.”

“You’re a dick,” Hamilton tells him, but it’s with a strange chuckle in his throat. He keeps digging in the bag and pulls out a little bathroom kit. “Here’s your soap. And look, it even has salon shampoo. For that mane of yours.”

“Why, thank you,” Jefferson says, grabbing it and tossing the CD back to Hamilton, who promptly buries it down deep in the recesses of the bag.

Jefferson is about to turn and go try out the hospital shower, when there’s a light knock on the door, followed by it swinging open. A woman pops her head through and Jefferson takes a minute to recognize her, considering the last time he saw her, she was covered in well-worn scrubs and gloves. The doctor from the surgery.

“Good evening,” she tells them with a smile much more chipper than the last time Jefferson saw her. “Can we talk for a minute, Mr. Hamilton?”

Hamilton grunts, but waves her inside. She walks through the door and shuts it behind her, a clipboard in her hands and her bright, white doctor’s coat swirling around her. “Glad you’re awake.”

“Me, too,” Hamilton says sincerely.

The doctor smiles at him again and pulls up a chair beside the bed, sitting down. She gives a nod to Jefferson as she does. “My name is Dr. Schuyler. I was the one who operated on you last night.”

“Schuyler?” Hamilton mutters, even as he tries to sit up further. “Any relation to Angelica?”

“Yes, actually,” she says with a grin. “My sister. You know her?”

“Work with her.”

“Ah, a man in politics. I should know that, but I’m honestly very terrible at keeping track of that kind of thing.”

Hamilton looks like he’s biting his lip so hard it’s about to bleed to keep silent and Jefferson just smirks to himself and looks down at his own lap, threading his fingers together in it.

“Anyway,” she continues. “I was able to look over your chart and see how you’ve been faring. And we were able to get records from Dr. Seabury’s office of your previous ultrasounds.”

“Should have picked a better doctor,” Hamilton complains. “I should have known he wouldn’t know what he was doing.”

“Seabury? Oh, it wasn’t his fault,” she assures him. “Sometimes these things happen. I looked over all your previous records and it doesn’t look like there was anything there to preempt cause. No warning signs as it were.”

“Well, what was it that actually happened?” Hamilton asks.

She gives him a smile and a nod. “Well, you see, when an omega starts to birth--”

“ _No_ ,” Hamilton snaps. “I changed my mind. I don’t want to know.”

Jefferson chuckles and the doctor just gives her head a little shake. “Alright. Well, if you decide later, I can explain it all to you. Basically your body thought, well, it was done before it even started. Caused some rupturing and internal bleeding. Now, as I’m sure you’ve already noticed because you don’t seem to me like a man that likes to stay still, trying to sit up and walk is going to hurt pretty good for awhile. We’ll keep you under observation for two days minimum and see how you fare. You should make a full recovery, although you’re going to have a scar. Other than that, just know that during your next pregnancy--”

“That is _not_ going to happen.”

Another smile. “Then if you change your mind, you’ll need to let Seabury or whoever your doctor is know and they can help us better prepare for that eventuality.”

“Good. Then can I take a shower or something? I feel like a freight train.”

“Of course. Just let the nurses on staff know when you are so they can help you or are at least in the know for if you slip or need assistance.”

“Fine,” Hamilton grumbles. “Whatever.” He chews his lip and looks down the bed at his own toes hidden in the covers. “The...baby?”

“He’s fine. We did have some complications during the surgery. When he came out, his lungs weren’t too keen on starting on their own. He had a bit of trouble breathing and we put him on a ventilator for the first several hours. Although, he learned very fast and after some observations, we’re giving him a clean bill of health. He’s passed all our tests.” A soft smile. “Six point eight pounds. A healthy little guy. Do you want to see him? I can have a nurse bring him inside--”

“DON’T,” Hamilton snaps and holds his hand out for emphasis, the fingers spread and strong in the motion. “I’m not ready for that.”

“...oh,” she says, her smile faltering. “Of course. We’ll give you time.” She turns slowly to Jefferson. “Would you like to see him?”

Jefferson freezes. On the one hand, _hell yes_. But on the other...he doesn’t want to leave Hamilton. And he wonders if he should be saying no for solidarity or out of some obligation to let Alex be the first one to see him, but regardless, Hamilton clears that up for him right off the bat. “Go if you want to.”

Jefferson blinks and stares at him, at how awkward Hamilton looks under the fluorescent lights and how his body is nearly shaking with nervous energy. “Are you sure? We could see him together--”

“No. No, Thomas. Fuck no. I’m not...no, okay?”

“Do you..want me to see him?”

“If you want.”

“Look, do you--”

“Just go, okay! Go see him.”

Jefferson holds his gaze for a bit longer, long enough for Hamilton to look away, and when no further clarifications are quick to Hamilton’s lips, he rises and brushes his shirt off. “Okay,” he tells Dr. Schuyler, “take me to him.”

She nods and rises, motions him to the door first. He doesn’t quite make it there before Hamilton calls out one final request. “Make sure he’s okay?”

Jefferson turns back to him and gives him the sincerest of nods.

***

The infant ward is both bustling with activity and kept as low-key as possible, which is a strange combination of energies. Everyone moves quickly to their destinations and with purpose, but quietly as well, filled with possibility and wonder. The scents are overwhelming--new parents on emotional highs that can’t be contained.

Dr. Schulyer leads Jefferson to a secluded room with a rocking chair and overly bright walls that scream _sunshine_. She directs him to the chair and tells him she’ll be back in just a moment with the baby. But before she can retreat, Jefferson tells her, “I don’t want to keep you from important work. I’d be happy to just get a nurse.”

Eliza turns back to him with hands on her hips but a fondness to her mouth. “You aren’t. Trust me. I, uh…” She lifts a hand to her hair and fiddles with the bun at the back of it. “I’m off duty. Since I operated all night. But some cases, you know, they hit you a bit hard. I wanted to see this one through.”

“Oh,” Jefferson says and sticks his hands in his pockets. “Uh, thank you. Then.”

“Of course,” she says. “Just tell me if you need anything, alright. _Anything_.”

“I will,” Jefferson agrees. “ _We_ will.”

She nods and leaves to get the baby. Once she’s gone, Jefferson settles in, but finds that he can’t keep still, that he rocks the chair back and forth in both anticipation and the bubbling thought quick to his mind that this isn’t his baby, not his offspring, not his son, so why is he nervous? Why is he practically bursting with excitement?

But he can’t help that he is. Can’t help that he already feels a connection to this kid that has nothing to do with him, except he’s seen him for the first time in the ultrasound, that he’s felt his feet kick and seen his energy, that he practically named him. _Toad_. Toad. Toad is here. And he’s going to meet him.

Jefferson hears him long before Dr. Schuyler walks into the room. He’s screaming his head off and if his lungs weren’t ready to function last night, they sure as hell are working now. The doctor opens the door with an apologetic wince and a bundle of blankets cradled in her arms. She shuts the door behind her softly, but it wouldn’t matter if she slammed it because the room echoes terribly and the only thing that Jefferson can hear is Toad wailing his head off--going from solid cry down into that gumping kind of caterwauling that comes out broken and wretched. “Quite a way to meet your son, huh?” Dr. Schuyler tells him. “He’s quite a feisty baby, this one.”

Jefferson gives her a wide grin and can’t help but crane his neck up in curiosity to see into the bundle. “Not my son,” he says by way of an afterthought.

“Oh!” she says with surprise. “Sorry, I assumed…”

“Don’t be sorry,” he tells her, still trying to get a look. “Everyone assumes. His biological father...died, actually. Rather suddenly.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Alexander is...it was rough.”

“I can imagine.” She rocks the baby in her arms. “Well, would you like to meet your step-son, anyway? Or is it son of the man I’m dating?” She chuckles at herself.

“More like it,” Jefferson agrees and doesn’t correct her further. He holds out his hands. “And yes. I’m ready.”

“Gimme,” she says with another laugh. “New parents are always so eager.”

Jefferson just gives her a little eyeroll as she walks over and bends down, transferring the bundle to his arms. Jefferson cradles him gently and pulls him in, sitting back in the chair and looking down into the blankets. The baby is waving his arms about rather madly for a newborn, twitching and letting all the sound in his body go. He’s got his eyes squeezed shut in fervor and all his muscles bunched from the effort. He’s small, so tiny in Jefferson’s hands, so like…

So like. Jefferson has done this before. Has held another life in his hands, its fragile beating, the quietness of the walls around them folding in and in and in like snowflakes falling into crystal sheets of snow untouched and untamed. She was so quiet. But so real. His hands hot, his own heart beating so fast and fast and fast and fast and the feeling. He remembers it so well. The feeling of her being taken from him. His hands empty. So empty. His mother hushing him, hushing him so still and then there was only silence. Only silence and she never screamed, not once. Not once. Not once. Not once did she…

But this one is screaming. He is screaming in Jefferson’s hands, so loud but the sound is comforting, the sound is alive, the sound is new. This is new. This baby in his arms, this life in his hands, this moment as it stretches out forever and so long and Jefferson bends over him, gives a sound from his own mouth as well that is something like a laugh, but something also like his own cry, a sob from somewhere in his soul and he releases something that has been pinned up and drowned inside of him for so long now that he never thought it would ever go free but here…

His aura surrounds them. Sunshine. Happiness. The smell of grass pressed to nose. The sound far away of children laughing, the chain gears spinning on a bike. The clouds as they float by and this, skin warm and comforting, the familiarity of a touch. It is something no one else will ever have. It is something kept from Dr. Schuyler, here in this room. Something not even Hamilton will ever feel. Something, Jefferson knows this is true, that even his own kids--should he ever have them--will never touch. This is a moment not for anyone but them. But for Jefferson, earth under his toes. And for…

“Toad,” he whispers, says it and watches in awe as the baby quiets. He keeps kicking, keeps reacting to his surroundings, twitching in Jefferson’s hands, but his sounds turn to gurgling and he opens his eyes to look at Jefferson for the first time. His eyes are big, so big and so dark. Hamilton’s eyes. The shape of them, the structure. Deep little pin pricks that will turn into wells like his daddy one day and they take Jefferson in and then blink as the cry dissipates.

Jefferson looks up at Dr. Schuyler with a question in his eyes. She smiles from where she has retreated to lean against the wall, her arms across her chest. “How long have you and Hamilton been dating?”

“W-what?” he asks, flustered. Toad begins to fuss and Jefferson rocks him until he quiets again.

“Babies are used to their surroundings,” she explains. “They are very sensitive to auras. So even though you might not _think_ you’re his dad.” She grins. “Well, no one told _him_ that. He’s used to you. He knows you.”

Jefferson looks back down at Toad who has opened his mouth in a yawn. “You know me?” he whispers to him and Toad just blinks up at him and gives him a couple more kicks.

“Do you want me to take him back?” Eliza asks.

“No,” Thomas says without looking away. “No, I’m not ready.”

“Completely understandable,” her voice says from far away. “Just knock on the door when you’re ready.”

He hears the door open and then shut. Hears the silence as it descends. And then he starts rocking. Starts moving back and forth in the chair, eyes always on Toad. “Hey, little man,” he coos and talks to him. Tells him things for a long while. Tells him about Hamilton and that Toad will have to forgive him for being scared. Tells him about John and how much he knows Laurens would have loved to meet him. Tells him, even, about Madison’s agricultural complaints, about Lafayette and Washington’s flirtation. Warns him about how much of an ass Adams is.

He thinks of empty hands, thinks of what he’s lost, and he tells it to Toad. Slow. Methodical. Speaks it to someone and shares this secret between them, the shadow and the light of it all. And when he’s done, he says, “But you.” And he smiles, sad and broken, but slowly being glued back together. Slowly realizing that the world is this, is little Toad in his hands, is Toad’s dad not too far at all and the way Hamilton looked at him before he kissed him.

“You,” Thomas says. “I am never letting you go.”


	15. The Deal You Offer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a bit later! The holidays threw me off. :)

Jefferson spends a long time with Toad in the room, but eventually he has to give him up so the nurses can take care of him. Not quite ready to face any other living being yet, he goes to the hospital cafeteria and gets a coffee, nurses it in the corner until only the dregs are left and then, when he feels like his shaking has ceased and he has become controlled once more, only then does he return to Hamilton’s room.

Alex is asleep again, although his hair looks wet and he appears much fresher than he had earlier. Jefferson debates gathering his things and leaving him to it, letting him be alone in his recovery. But he thinks of Alex’s eyes as they darted when he said no to Jefferson leaving, of Toad and his desire to be near something familiar, even of Dr. Schuyler and her nod of respect toward him. No, Jeffreson has to stay. Even if things between him and Alex are...unsettled. Undefined. Wisps floating in the room. Thomas must still walk through the fog that surrounds them, but always at Alex’s side.

So with a small, nearly silent sigh, he moves toward the bag and digs out the shampoo and soap once more. He opens the door to the bathroom softly and steps inside, closes it with care and hopes that the start of the water pouring from the shower won’t disturb Hamilton.

After that, well, he takes his time. There is so much to wash away. The dirt and oil built upon his skin. The crinkles in his hair from ill-care and sleeping in strange places. But also the desperation, loneliness, and worry of Hamilton’s fate. The fragile, cracked doubt that Toad wouldn’t love him. And a million, _million_ memories that he has until recently been able to suppress that are now birds lighting from their cages after years of captivity.

There are other things, too, that should be cleansed. The way Hamilton’s lips felt on his own, the touch of their skin, his eyes so bright. Toad crying in his arms and then looking at him, seeing him with such innocence and new revelation. The way Jefferson’s heart pounded when he realized his connection to Hamilton was more than what he will probably ever express.

Yes, these things are at the top of the list to destroy, to clean, to wash. If would be easier for both of them, to just return to what had been before. But no matter how much he tries, he can’t do it. Can’t scrub these memories from his mind. So for the longest time he stands until the shower, just letting the water hit him and when he is pruned and can no longer stand it, he steps out, dries and changes, and retreats back into the room.

Alex’s slow, deep breath assures Jefferson that he is still out, so Jefferson takes his laptop with him to his chair and covers the bare amount of email that he needs to address to avoid any fires at work before putting everything aside and grabbing his trusty blanket from earlier. He curls up into the chair, right beside Hamilton, and slowly lulls himself to sleep in the quiet of the room.

***

He sleeps fitfully, dozing in and out as the light slowly wanes from the curtains into night. Hamilton is exhausted, so he sleeps. Jefferson, equally, is drained, so he snatches rest from the air when his body will allow and they slip like that, through the late afternoon into evening and night. Jefferson loses track of the hour completely, but when he stirs once and opens his eyes to adjust his blanket, he finds Hamilton awake in the darkness, studying him.

Jefferson blinks himself further awake and gazes back. It’s after sunset and before sunrise. That’s all Jefferson knows. But even in the cover of night, the room isn’t entirely dark. It’s ringed by yellow from the fluorescent lights under the hospital room door and the streetlights behind Jefferson shining through thin curtains. Jefferson is reminded with a flash that feels like fate of Hamilton’s broken body in the street, the lights above him, as he finally cried in loss and maybe it is Hamilton’s expression now--all cold calculation and stone--or the shape of his body. Maybe the angle of his hair, the depth of his eyes, but Jefferson knows that Laurens is within this moment, as well. That John has joined them in the room and so it shocks Jefferson’s so hard he gets goosebumps when Hamilton snaps off, “Come over here, goddammit.”

“What?” Jefferson breathes.

“Why the fuck,” Hamilton asks, “are you going to stay here, but sleep in that goddamn chair? There’s plenty of room over here. It would be more comfortable.”

Jefferson frowns at the gravel tone of his voice, despite the invitation of his words. “I was giving you your space.”

“No, you aren’t,” Hamilton chastises him. “You sitting next to me is not giving me space.”

“What do you want from me, Alexander?” Thomas asks, even as he sits up and removes the blanket from himself, dropping it into the floor.

Hamilton lifts his chin defiantly and Jefferson sees shining within him the young Hamilton he first met, hot like a fire, who was there before John, Thomas, or any of it. “Come over here and I’ll tell you.”

And Thomas cannot disobey him. Not in this and not, he feels, in anything. So he slips from the chair to the bed and waits for Hamilton to scoot himself over before he lays down beside him, not touching, but intimately close. “So tell me,” Jefferson says, “because I have to inform you, Hamilton, you’re throwing a lot of mixed signals my way.” He lifts his hand to rub sleep from his eyes as Hamilton reaches his hand out through the air with great effort to touch Jefferson’s arm.

“I know,” he says simply and leaves his fingers upon Jefferson’s skin for a moment before he talks. “I’m not ready. There are...there are a lot of things I still need to do. I need to feel like _me_ again. I haven’t been me for…” He laughs bitterly. “Nine months. I can barely remember what it feels like. I need to...I need to prove to myself I’m not gone. I need space to...to find out who I am again. But…” His eyes dart down to the bed between them.

“But?”

“But I kissed you, didn’t I?” His gaze lifts, right into Jefferson’s eyes. “I kissed you. Even though I’m afraid it’s postpartum fondness.”

Jefferson smiles a tiny, sad thing. “And I’m afraid of another thing.” He reaches for Hamilton’s hand, threads their fingers together slowly, but with intention. “I’m afraid it’s forever.”

Hamilton’s eyes widen and he stares at Jefferson openly, drinking him in and breaking him apart slowly, looking for something, something… “I have no right to ask,” Hamilton starts. “I have _no right_...but if you give me time...if you let me...I _could_ come to you. I could. Maybe. If I found myself again and it was still there...this fondness--”

“What do you need?” Jefferson cuts him off.

Hamilton’s gaze stiffens in determination. “A month.” He nods to himself. “Washington will give me parental leave--”

“--of course--”

“--I’m not going to take it.”

“What?”

“Thomas,” Hamilton chuckles. “You know me.” He softens into silence and then furrows his brow in thought before he gives another nod as he continues. “Washington will give me paternal leave and I’m going to strong arm him into letting me work. And giving the leave to you.”

“Alex--”

“And you take care of the baby. Just...take him. Take care of him. And no questions asked. Let me do what I need to do. Let me work. Let me go out to the goddamn club. Let me do what I need to do to fix myself and that’s the price. That’s the price for getting me.”

Thomas rolls his eyes and looks up at the ceiling. “For maybe getting you. If you don’t start to hate me again when you feel like yourself.”

“It’s a good deal. I’m a good catch.”

“Stop it.” Jefferson leans up on his elbows and looks down at Hamilton. “Stop trying to sell yourself or whatever the fuck you’re doing. Look...I’ll be the one to say it. I’ll be the weak link here. I care about you. I _do_. Maybe I’m stupid for doing that, maybe I’m naive. Hell, maybe you’re leading me on to get fucking babysitting duties out of me, but...I saw them wheel you away and I thought you were going to die and I knew I would never be the same.” He sighs. “And I care about Toad. I don’t want to let him go, either. So...so it’ a good thing I told Lafayette to move your stuff into my place already. I’ll do it. I can give you a month. But in return? You have got to show me, tonight, that there is something here worth risking. Even if it’s just hormonal fondness, show me. Okay, Alex? Show me.”

“And if I...let my guard down tonight, then you’ll do it? When I’m released from the hospital, I’ll move in with you and you’ll take care of Toad and I’ll go back to work and find myself again? And you won’t hold that against me? Or expect anything from me?”

“For a month. That’s a deal.”

Alex nods and lifts his hand away from Jefferson’s and holds out his pinky finger for a promise. “And I’ll probably fuck other people.”

Jefferson snorts. “Yeah,” he says and grabs Hamilton’s finger in his own and shakes it. “When you said the club, I figured.”

Hamilton narrows his eyes and studies him, not releasing Thomas’ finger from his own. “That doesn’t bother you?”

Jefferson shrugs and curls the tip of his finger harder around Hamilton. “I don’t want pretty, plastic Hamilton. I want the real thing.”

Hamilton’s gaze continues to bore into him, unrelenting under the darkness of the room speared by lines of little yellow light and Jefferson is reminded once again of wild things like wolves, the rumble of their throats to the sky, the rattle of the wind through the trees, the cool relief it brings.

Which is something akin to the relief he feels now, when Hamilton releases him and uses his own hand to move upward to cradle the back of Jefferson’s neck, lay him down and come over him with vigor--lips on lips, his unkept hair a cascade that hides them from the room, the hospital, the rest of the world. And if Jefferson had any worry before, any doubt of Hamilton’s feelings for him, he doesn’t now. Because the press of Hamilton’s lips to his, the soft little sound that escapes his lungs, the furrow of his brow, the touch of his fingertips to Jefferson’s skin and his body arched half over Jefferson to kiss him, take him, devour him...well, that says more than any of the words that Hamilton has uttered or implied. And Jefferson understands the fear, the worry, the hesitation. He understands and believes Alexander when he says he is not yet ready. But this kiss, doesn’t it speak of a man who will be? Doesn’t it promise far more after just the small space of a month is over than anything Jefferson could have hoped for? He has stayed this long--isn’t it worth just a little more, when the light at the end of the tunnel is Hamilton himself, shining? Hamilton’s eyes bright, his smile wide, the mingle of his aura weaved into Jefferson’s so thoroughly that Jefferson will never be able to live without him, never be able to breathe.

Because, oh, how can he breathe? Even now.

 


	16. How I Am Getting Used to You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you guys, go! The chapter you've been waiting for: some baby fluff scenes. :D A happy chapter in the middle of all the angst. :) 
> 
> Also, as an update before we go into more angst chapters: 1) There is a happy ending tag and I plan to stick to it! 2) Jefferson's past isn't historically accurate. His past is a fictional retelling. Just so you guys know what's ahead!

Jefferson wakes to warmth--the room cozy around him, the light soft and comforting, the blankets curled up into his skin. But mostly, _mostly_ , the warmth comes from Hamilton, from Alex who spans the length of his side, pressed to him. Alex, who has his head on Jefferson’s chest and, under the sound of life from the hallway, the cars as they pass below, is softly purring into the absence of space between their bodies.

Thomas tilts his chin and examines him as much as he can. His hair is a mess, spread out in fifty million directions over the blankets, the pillow, and Jefferson’s own chest. His lips are parted, softer than they always seem to be and for once, his brow is not furrowed, the expression on his face not hard. It is soft, natural, something of happiness and hope and Thomas’ heart swells fast at the sight.

A month, he thinks. A month for this. Oh, yes, it is worth it.

He puts his hand on Hamilton’s back, curls him in further, and listens in awe as the purring ramps up in intensity. It’s beautiful, wild, free. But mostly it is intimate and Jefferson treasures it as he would any pearl or gem.

But eventually, Hamilton wakes up and Jefferson has to release him to allow him to move, stretch, and pop his limbs stiff from sleep. He fully expects Hamilton to sit up, to retreat from him, maybe even attempt to stand even though the scar across his abdomen is making that motion rough. But no. Instead, Hamilton merely lies back down after his limbs have been worked back into place and returns to the same position he had been in sleep.

Thomas smiles. “Like me more than you think you do, huh?”

“Just shut up,” Alex tells him without heat and closes his eyes against the light from the parking lot. Jefferson is inclined to agree with him and lays back on his own pillow, absently running his fingers over Alex’s back.

“It’s nice to pretend,” Jefferson tells him and Hamilton hums in agreement.

More time passes. Jefferson isn’t sure of how long. They both drift in and out of sleep, but they never stray from one another’s bodies, and the morning slips by like gold dust on the wind--fanciful and worthwhile. Thomas could get used to it. So very easily.

“You said you’d stop in the morning,” Jefferson reminds him when they are both no longer sleepily, but their eyes are still heavy.

“No,” Hamilton mutters his correction, always arguing, always disputing, always having to be right. “I said I’d go back to work. You’ve already wormed your way into my hospital bed, haven’t you, you bastard?”

Jefferson chuckles. “Whatever you say. Are you going to kiss me again?”

Hamilton laughs, something thin and simple. “Probably.”

“Okay,” Jefferson agrees and finds that is all there is left to say.

***

The days pass and Hamilton recovers, if a little more slowly than the doctors originally anticipated. He moves from bedridden to stretching to walking to eventual full movement and Jefferson is with him as the days flit by both short and long. They work from the hospital, furiously on their laptops, at times sending volley after volley of email to each other, at times spitting remarks across the room, and at times softly, each to themselves. There is one particular day at the beginning in which Jefferson witnesses a rather long and heated phone call between Hamilton and Washington in which Hamilton eventually wins, but other than that, well, it’s as quiet as work can ever be.

And they kiss. Sleep in the same bed with skin touching through the thin materials they wear, but there is never more than that. Hamilton isn’t ready--not physically and certainly not mentally and that’s fine. Jefferson respects that and doesn’t ask for any more, merely rides out the wave of it and is grateful for every moment he gets, every little kiss, every flit of their eyes upon one another, every touch--even if it is never below the belt. But that’s fine, too. Good. He’s not in for the sex, anyway, and that more than anything nearly makes his romantic, overly-sentimental self gag.

The bottom line is this--for a moment, they are happy. They are content in this, the eye of the storm, the second that stretches as you break the water for air before another wave sucks you down. Here, right now, between the door to the hospital hall and the window to the parking lot, it is quiet. Serene. Here, it is reverent. It is Thomas’ hand on Alexander’s back and Alex’s fingers splayed on his chest, their whispers, their laughs, and Hamilton’s toes chilly on Thomas’ own. It is paradise, something like home.

But no paradise can last.

Eventually, they begin to think of Hamilton’s hospital release and the inevitability of returning to something outside this. It looms over them like clear skies on the edge of the storm--nearer and nearer and nearer, speaking of the end of their sacred, powerful moment. Jefferson dreads it so much for so many reasons. He has begun to catalogue the things he will miss, the fine straightness of Hamilton's hair, the warmth of his skin, the way the light from the window hits just right upon his cheekbones...but there are other things to consider, too. Things besides just how Hamilton feels in his arms.

And Jefferson knows this to be certain--before Hamilton returns to work and can forget all about them, Hamilton needs to hold his son.

The action should be easy, should be met with joy and anticipation. But they are not really the average set of parents and besides, Hamilton is unlike Jefferson, who sees Toad at least three times a day. In fact, Alex has not made a visit to the nursery and, when Thomas or Dr. Schuyler or anyone else for that matter suggests the possibility of bringing the baby to the room, Hamilton flips his shit.

But Jefferson won’t let the beginning of Toad’s life end like that. So as the days draw close to release, Jefferson is nothing if not determined and he takes matters into his own hands.

It’s just after lunch and Hamilton, while not quite chipper, isn’t really raging like he sometimes is, so Jefferson decides no time like the present. He excuses himself and traipses up to the infant ward where they are expecting him for his regular visit. Toad is rather active today, fussy and being a pain in the ass, but Jefferson is a pro by now at dealing with baby temper tantrums. He walks the line of the room and lets Toad scream it out in his hands--being an awful lot like his fathers, Jefferson is quick to think--and when Toad’s face goes from red to purple to spitting to finally quieting into little murmurs of discontent, Jefferson decides he is ready.

He takes Toad to Hamilton’s room and hopes he’s not about to die.

Hamilton is sitting up in bed with his laptop, typing away with quick, determined strokes. He merely glances up when Jefferson enters the room, no doubt expecting Thomas’ return. It takes him a minute to notice the bundle in Jefferson’s hands, but when he does, all hell breaks loose.

Jefferson’s first clue that Hamilton has keyed in is the abrupt stop of his typing, halted in such a fashion that the letters on his keyboard must be worried they are malfunctioning. Following that is a shrill intake of breath and a snapping, “What is that?” and when the the sentence wakes Toad from where he has calmed down to give a little cough cry, Hamilton loses it.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Shit. No, Jefferson. Motherfucking _no_ ,” Hamilton spits and nearly makes it off the bed in a bid for escape before Thomas interrupts him.

“You don’t have to look,” Jefferson assures him, “I just thought he might like to sit by the window.”

Hamilton glares at him warily from where one leg is dangling from the bed, ready to flee, but Jefferson ignores him and walks to the window as if nothing is out of the ordinary. Even as he passes Hamilton, though, even as he refuses to look him in the eye or give him anything, he is hyper aware of Alex’s locked jaw, his narrow eyes, the way he is white-knuckling the sheet where one hand has found its way to gripping the white fabric.

Baby steps, he thinks, and focuses on the actual baby. He reaches the window and the chair beneath it and sinks down with Toad, cooing at him. The poor little guy has exhausted himself from earlier and is now content to just snuggle into Jefferson’s arms as Jefferson rocks him softly.

The light from the window lulls Toad to sleep and it is almost twenty minutes before Jefferson picks up the soft, slow clacking of the keys again that belies Hamilton back at work. It is barely perceptible at first, but it grows in intensity until Hamilton’s fingers on the keys start really hitting home and he returns to his previous furious pace.

And then pauses. Jefferson pretends not to notice his eyes hot on the bundle in Jefferson’s arms. The typing picks up again. “Adams is being a dick,” Hamilton says, softer than normal.

“Oh?” Jefferson answers and wiggles his thumb where Toad’s strong little fingers have hold of it.

“He’s fighting extra hard to squash the omega bill. Fuck him in his hairy ass.”

Jefferson chuckles. “He’ll lose.”

“Yeah, but he’s gathering support with us gone. It’s going to take a bit to trounce him.” Quiet. Another pause.

“He’s got Laurens’ nose,” Jefferson tells him and the quick, shocked breath that Hamilton inhales fills the room with an anticipated anxiety. “I mean, I’m guessing. I didn’t stare at Laurens’ nose too much, but it’s not yours.”

“Adams,” Hamilton jumps over him quickly, “told me _in writing_ that this bill was only a self-serving piece of garbage and that no one in the country besides me and those who like to look at me--I think he meant you--would vote for it.”

“And his forehead.” Jefferson removes his thumb from Toad’s hand and brushes it across his soft baby head.

“Adams is an asshole,” Hamilton grumbles. “I hate Adams.” A lengthy pause, which Jefferson waits out. “...nothing else?”

Jefferson shakes his head. “No. Ears, chin, cheeks...that’s all you. And his eyes. Big.” Jefferson lifts his gaze to find Hamilton staring at them both, his toes moving uncertainly on the bed. “And bitchy.”

Hamilton snorts and looks down at the sheets. “John’s were bitchy, too.”

“Yes, but these are pretentious.” Jefferson carefully stands up with his armful of baby and approaches the bed. Hamilton tenses, but makes no move to run. Jefferson circles to the other side and, equally as carefully, lays down on the bed with his back propped on the headboard. He crosses his legs at the ankles and lifts Toad up into his chest to support him. “Laurens was a snarky guy, but he wasn’t pretentious. That’s all you, Mr. Secretary of the Treasury.”

“Whatever,” Hamilton grumbles and pulls his laptop to him again. He keeps typing out what Jefferson can see is an email to Adams. Jefferson returns his gaze to the dozing baby and starts humming songs under his breath. Halfway through the email, Hamilton glances over.

Jefferson doesn’t miss a beat in his singing, keeps going low and strong as he rocks and lets Hamilton look all he wants without fear of judgement. He wonders what the other man sees, wonders if the baby in his arms is enough removed from John to be loved, if Hamilton will ever treat him as his own being and what that means for Jefferson and Toad, if Jefferson and Toad will get to see each other any after this month is over. His heart clamps up...if Hamilton decides--

“You told me ‘the worst thing in the world,” Hamilton quotes, eyes locked on Toad’s sleeping face, “is to grow up unwanted.’”

Jefferson keeps rocking, but pours himself into Hamilton’s expression, wills his gaze so hard that Hamilton’s eyes lift to his own. “Why?” Hamilton asks him. “Why did you say that?”

Jefferson returns to looking at Toad, how his mouth is open with loud, baby breaths. He thinks of his nine siblings, every last fucking one of them, and his parents, the echo of their voices. “Because I was.”

Into the silence, Toad makes a little sigh. “I want to hold him now,” Hamilton says, voice strong. And even though this is what Jefferson has been wanting all along, even though it was his plan from the start of the day, and even though he knows this is how their faux-family heals, it still takes him quite a while to convince his arms to release Toad and the frantic pounding of his heart, the crackle of his nerves, to forget that _now_ is not _then_.

Jefferson hands him over and Hamilton takes him, stiff and nervous. Thomas watches them, watches Hamilton hold him out from his chest, one arm on his body, the other on his head, and stare down at the creature before him. Toad gurgles awake and opens his eyes to his father, waves his fists like he does before another tantrum starts, but none comes this time. Instead, he watches. They watch each other.

“Remember me?” Hamilton asks with a chuckle. “You little shit. My body is never going to be the same again.”

Toad lets go of a series of baby sounds and waves his limbs harder. Hamilton glances up and down him. “My son…” He laughs breathlessly. “Thomas, look at my son…”

Jefferson scoots closer and wraps an arm around both of them, pulls Hamilton into him, until Hamilton's head hits his shoulder, if his gaze never looks away from his child. “Jesus,” Hamilton whispers and bites his lip. “I still don’t know what I’m going to name him.”

Jefferson chuckles then and leans further down in the bed, drags Hamilton in until he’s laying down, too, with Toad curled into his body. “I know what you’re going to name him,” Jefferson tells him and rubs his shoulder, squeezing him in. “You’re going to name him John.”

Hamilton’s eyes move from the baby to Thomas, back again, and in the space of his thoughts, in the pause that surrounds the statement, he slowly relaxes inch by inch into Thomas’ chest, taking Toad with him who has started to speak to his father in his own way.

“Oh, fuck you,” Hamilton tells Jefferson with one last burst of stubbornness before he begins purring.

***

Two days later and they are packing. Hamilton is showered and dressed in appropriate civilian attire and he is throwing random objects back into their well used bag. Beside them, Toad sits in a baby carrier that Lafayette dropped off the night before, fussing since he isn’t getting any attention from the adults. They are just about ready to leave when the nurse pops her head back in one last time to check and make sure they don’t need anything else before departing.

Hamilton tells her no and walks past her to gather a bag of clothes, but she remains in his way, a grin on her face. “I was meaning to tell you, Mr. Hamilton,” she says, her eyes bright. “You and my cousin had the same _exact_ idea.”

Hamilton grunts. “Oh, and what is that?” he asks with fake cheer and if the nurse picks up his mocking, she doesn’t let in on it.

“Why, baby names of course. I’ll have to tell her that John Thomas is getting popular again!”

Jefferson’s gaze snaps up and Hamilton’s cheeks flame. “Go away,” he snaps, shooing the nurse, and then returns to his bag like nothing happened.

Jefferson points after her and then leaves his finger up and moves it slowly around so he is pointing at Hamilton. “Say what now?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Alex tells him eloquently.

“Thomas,” Thomas informs him, “is my name. Thomas Jefferson. Did you know?”

“Oh, fuck you with a mace, Jefferson,” Hamilton says and rips the zipper closed on the bag. “Look, I didn’t want to fucking call him John, okay? This way he can just be J.T. and we can leave it at that.”

Jefferson has half a heart to let him win, but he’s not so accommodating. “Well, he already has a nickname. You know, Toad. The name we’ve been calling him for months.”

“Look, you asshole,” Alex says and runs a hand through his hair, fingers swiping from his forehead back. “He has John’s name. And he has mine, too. And I figured... _fuck_. He wouldn’t be alive without the three of us. The _three_ of us, because you talked to me that day that I was...you know what, screw you, Jefferson. His name is John Thomas Hamilton and you can suck a dick.”

Hamilton throws the bag over his shoulder and stomps away. Jefferson chuckles after him and picks J.T. up in his carrier. “Don’t you worry, little man. ‘Thomas’ will give you some luck. It’ll hopefully counterbalance ‘Hamilton,’ anyway.”


	17. The Distance From Me to You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, someone in the comments asked "Is this six-flags?" :D Well, kind of, yes! Lol! Prepare for another dip as we go into some angst! But I PROMISE they will work their stuff out eventually and we are just a few chapters away from figuring out Jefferson's past!

“Parental leave is not a biscuit, Hamilton,” Washington grumbles as he tosses his pen down in frustration and leans back in his office chair. “You can’t just _give_ it to someone else because you don’t want it.”

Hamilton scoffs and lounges in the chair opposite Washington’s desk. Jefferson, by the door and holding the baby, rolls his eyes and Lafayette leans forward in his own chair.

“I’m going back to work, Washington,” Hamilton says firmly.

Washington spreads his hands out. “Okay. So is Jefferson.”

“I need to get in front of this omega bill. Adams is starting a _protest rally_.”

“Okay,” Washington agrees. “So get in front of it.”

“And I am the Secretary of the _Treasury_ , you remember? It’s rather an important job?”

“So is Secretary of State,” Washington argues and picks up his pen to swirl it between his fingers. “Welcome back to both of you,” he says with an obnoxious grin.

It’s at that point that J.T. begins crying because he’s had enough of this awake business and Jefferson has to walk in a circle to get him to calm down again. Washington closes his eyes and furrows his brow. “ _Why_ did you bring the _baby_ to work, Hamilton?”

Hamilton grins and lifts his right leg to place it on his left knee. “Well, I don’t have anywhere else to put him, do I, Mr. President? Since his single father is working and his current caregiver here is _also_ working rather unfairly because this administration doesn’t believe in the absolute desperation of a newborn in need.”

Washington rolls his head over to Lafayette with pursed lips and glaring eyes. “Gilbert.”

Lafayette represses a smile and stands up. “Now, now, mon ami,” he says as he walks behind the desk and gives Washington a squeeze on the shoulder. “You know you cannot win. Besides, it means that you will at least have one of them out of your hair.”

Washington sighs the heaviest of breathes and throws his hands up. “Fine,” he says, “ _fine_. It is insufferable to have you both here at the same time anyway.”

***

So it’s settled.

Hamilton brings his important stuff to Jefferson’s place, although he leaves his apartment open under his name despite Jefferson’s inner desire that he just give up the ghost and officially move in with him. Mulligan and Lafayette help cart everything over and Jefferson’s guest room becomes Hamilton’s place of residence. His other empty room, well, that’s a nursery, isn’t it? And Lafayette has done a good job with fixing it right up to Jefferson’s expectations. Toad likes the nursery fine, but he seems like he rather likes it a lot more in Jefferson’s arms.

Jefferson is willing to oblige him. They settle into a routine and Jefferson carts him around the house nonstop, serving as his caregiver, entertainer, bed, and a couple of times spit-up bucket as required. And Hamilton returns to work. He leaves early that first day and returns well after dusk that night, as per his usual routine, and Jefferson doesn’t find it quite as endearing as he used to. For one, he can’t help but be envious of his own past self--how he and Hamilton had kept the same hours, always been together even if they weren’t _together_ , how Jefferson had always been able to see him across the hall to his office as he worked away tirelessly, head bent over his laptop, keys flying, hair loose, and…

Well, it seemed a lot more reasonable for Hamilton to work late then, when Jefferson was merely his colleague and not...whatever he is.

But there’s more now, too, than just Hamilton. There’s Toad. John Thomas. Little J.T. So Jefferson distracts himself away from Alex with the other tiny man in his life and finds that he doesn’t have enough energy left to prepare for the possibility that he will only know J.T. for just a mere month. So he gets to know him as if this is forever.

Jefferson has never really taken care of kids before. Sure he had siblings, but it wasn't like any of them were close and after...well, it wasn’t like his parents ever asked him to help around the house at all, content to merely push him to the side whenever possible. Still, he’s a quick study and what he doesn’t know, his good friend Google fills in the blanks. And he learns J.T.’s quirks, so many quirks, like how he’s a finger sucker, how he likes to be held tight up against Jefferson’s chest, how he grumbles nonstop if he’s not being rocked or walked or moved and merely sitting in silence. They learn each other. And they get by.

Friday of the first week rolls in and Jefferson figures it might be nice to make Hamilton dinner to kick off the weekend after a long period at work. He balances taking care of Toad with cutting vegetables and finds himself singing to the baby at one point while he’s simultaneously adding pasta to water. He makes a mean gourmet Mac’n’Cheese with added asparagus and some rather ambitious spices, along with a side of mixed vegetables and some extra fancy bread he made sure Lafayette stocked in the cabinet.

He puts it out about twenty minutes prior to when Hamilton has roughly been getting home, immediately isolating himself in his room with the door locked. Jefferson’s not dumb enough to get the thing ready for five p.m. on the dot, but he makes sure that everything is in place so that when Hamilton barges in this time, he’ll have a reason to stay in the living areas with them.

After the food is done, Jefferson pops a bottle of sherry and fills two glasses, sets the table, puts Toad down for a nap, and waits.

Hamilton propels himself through the door only fifteen minutes later than anticipated, but he bypasses Jefferson without even a glance so completely that Thomas wonders if Alex even saw him sitting there. He rushes through the house to his room and closes the door behind him loudly. Jefferson is just about to stomp over and give a rather snotty knock when Hamilton comes back out of it with a bag thrown over his shoulder and a water bottle in his hand. He heads for the outside.

“Hey!” Jefferson calls and stands from his spot at the table, “I made dinner.”

Hamilton grinds to a halt half obscured by a pillar between him and the dining room table and then slowly walks back into view, glancing at the spread with his eyebrows going up. “Oh…”

“Thought it…” Jefferson waves his arms feebly. “...might be nice,” he finishes, lamely.

“...right.” Hamilton clutches his water bottle with one hand and reaches up to scratch the back of his head with the other. “I, uh...have plans…”

“Oh!” Jefferson says and bring his hands together to wring in front of him. “Sure, uh..”

“Yeah...I’m going to the club with the boys and then this weekend, I’m staying with Mulligan, but--”

“--sure, sure. Mulligan?”

“Lafayette’s with Washington this weekend, so we were going to kind of have a boy’s night--”

“Of course! I mean, sure, yes, you have plans. Right--”

“--right.”

“It’s just that I made dinner and...you could go after?”

“Thomas.”

“What?”

Hamilton grunts and twists his water bottle in his hands. “I said I needed space.”

“Oh! Yes…”

Hamilton waits a hefty pause. “...dinner isn’t space.”

“Sure. Yes, of course.” Jefferson waves him away. “You go have fun. Be yourself again. Toad and I will see you…?”

“Monday night.”

“Monday night...sure! Okay.” Jefferson puts his hands down self consciously and sticks them in his pockets. “Uh...goodbye.”

Hamilton grunts and then gives one last look at the table again. “Yeah, bye.” He starts to walk away and then spins on his heel back to look at Jefferson. “You know Mac’n’Cheese is _your_ favorite food, right?” he asks with a grimace.

“Oh!” Jefferson says. “Yeah, yeah, sorry, I--”

“--it’s cool.” Hamilton shrugs and then hits the water bottle against his thigh. “See ya, Jefferson.”

“Yeah!” Jefferson calls as Hamilton hits the front door and breezes through it, a pit in his stomach growing at the use of ‘Jefferson’ and not ‘Thomas’ like it has been. “...see you.”

The door closes and Jefferson waits a beat to see if he’ll come back, but no. He’s gone. So Thomas reaches up and scratches the back of his own neck, stares at the dishes before him, and then silently sets about putting everything away. He wraps Hamilton’s dish in saran wrap and sticks it in the fridge, puts the leftovers from the pot in there as well. He pours Hamilton’s glass of sherry into his own and corks the bottle, puts the dirty dishes into the sink, and then takes his own plate and glass into the nursery, collapses in the rocking chair there. “Fuck,” he whispers to Toad’s sleeping form. “Guess it’s just you and me, buddy.”


	18. How You Flare Hot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, guys! Another chapter in which Hamilton is a turd. It'll get fixed eventually, though! Also, sorry I am behind on responding to comments! The holidays have got me all out of whack. But I love all of you and will respond soon and thank you for taking the time to read and comment!

The weekend is just them, same as the week has been. Jefferson wakes in the middle of the night when J.T. cries, goes to sleep midday when the baby takes a nap, wakes up when he needs attention again, and so forth and so on. He plays J.T. little nursery songs, reads him fairy tales, makes him watch Fox News so that he can start believing in the _right_ set of politics as early as possible.

When he gets a chance, he works. Responds to emails and catches up on the rather explosive email debacle between Hamilton and Adams over the omega bill, chats with Madison a bit on the work chatroom on Sunday about the status and whether Madison thinks the bill will pass--he does, but he doesn’t think it will pass with a large margin. When he’s done with that, he returns to his secondary work list, keeping track of journals, books, and online sources that he needs to, drafting bills that won’t be requested for months, and drawing out his long-term career plans that hopefully will one day end in the presidency when Washington decides he would like to retire to Mount Vernon--most likely with a Frenchman in tow.

What he doesn’t do, not at all, is think of Hamilton. Dwell on what Hamilton is doing, what he did Friday night, what club he went to, how drunk he got, whose bed he woke up in, how much of a hangover he has. Not that Jefferson minds if Hamilton were to wake in someone else’s bed. He’s already told him as much. But when Jefferson had imagined that possibility, he had imagined at the very least a damn phone call saying Alex was okay and he had been quite the fool to hope that just one of Hamilton’s excursions amid the thrumming bass and low, sweaty lighting would be with _him_.

But it isn’t him. He gets nothing. Not during the week and not over the weekend, even so much as a small ding of a text. For all Jefferson knows, Hamilton keeled over with alcohol poisoning on Friday and no one has gotten around to informing Thomas about it.

But he’s thinking about it when he said he wouldn’t be. And that kind of course leads to nothing but bitterness. So Jefferson reminds himself twenty-three more days and puts his energy into writing a very sternly worded letter to an idiot governor in the midwest who is complaining rather heavily about Jefferson’s latest regulation.

***

Monday rolls around and no word from Alex, but Thomas hadn’t expected there to be. Toad wakes early. Very early. Four a.m. early and gets a hankering in his mind to cry with unrelenting force until Jefferson picks him up and walks him in a big circle around the living room, singing Humpty-Dumpty.

Once he’s relatively calm, Jefferson feeds him and burps him, keeps rocking him to his heart’s content. And apparently Toad has decided that the four a.m. screams will become the four p.m. screams, too, and he’s really rather awful throughout the day, asserting his baby will with a vengeance. Jefferson watches him warily, taking his temperature and monitoring his behavior to make sure nothing is wrong, but he determines pretty quickly that it is not Toad’s health, but his attitude, that needs some adjusting.

Which means that it’s not until six that Jefferson finally gets a moment of peace to clean up the house that has really been scattered about with baby junk, not to mention his own dirty dishes from lunch. He takes them all into the kitchen and dumps them in the sink, begins washing, and it’s at that precise moment that Hamilton walks in the door.

They give each other an up-and-down. Hamilton is clean, his clothes crisper than Jefferson imagined they would be, and his hair is shining, his lips not smiling, but not frowning either. He looks fine, a bit more healthy that Jefferson is used to seeing him these days, and for that bit, he’s grateful. For the scoff that Hamilton gives at his own appearance--pajamas still on and sagging, spit-up on his shirt, and his hair thrown back in the messiest of ponytails--he is not as amused.

Hamilton chuckles to himself and starts walking further back into the house. “I have never seen you with your hair up. It looks weird. I don’t like it.”

Jefferson rolls his eyes and returns to the plate he was scrubbing. “Well, let me go fix it right away so _you_ can be happy.”

Hamilton gives a shrug as he walks. “Just think you got all this free time at home. I imagined you would spend it primping.”

Jefferson’s nail scrapes over the plate as his hand and the sponge come to a stop. “Are you fucking serious?” he asks Alex, who is most of the way back to his bedroom.

“What?” Hamilton says, stopping and turning toward him. “Just saying you look--”

“I _look_ ,” Jefferson interrupts him with a growl, “like I’ve been taking care of your _son_ all day. But what would you know about it? Not that you’ve been home one minute to see if there even _is_ still a baby in this house.”

“I told you--”

“Shut up,” Jefferson says and picks up the plate, scrubbing vigorously. “I know what you told me. I just didn’t think…”

“You didn’t think what?”

“You’d be such a _bitch_ about it,” Jefferson finishes, refusing to look back at Alex.

Not that he needs to. Because the only sound he gets in return for all his effort is the slamming of the bedroom door as Hamilton secures himself inside for the evening. And by the time that Jefferson goes to bed, Hamilton still hasn’t come out of his self-proclaimed sanctuary. Not that Jefferson cares. The dishes are cleaner than they have ever been.

***

It continues like that. Through the next week and into the weekend, not that Jefferson is keeping good track of the days. With work confined to the display screen on his laptop, he doesn’t have much use for keeping track of what’s Monday and what’s Friday, but Friday rolls around nonetheless and the only bit of Hamilton that Jefferson has seen is his retreating ass when he is either headed to the front door to work or headed into his room for the night. It’s rather frustrating, but what’s Thomas to do?

The weekend settles around Toad and himself like dust filtering down in afternoon sunshine and Jefferson accepts finally at about noon on Saturday that Hamilton will again not be home. J.T. has exhausted himself from an early morning play session and so Jefferson sets about tidying up the house, putting the books back on the nursery bookshelf, the stuffed frog back where it should be, the mobile adjusted to a slow spin. He stares around him at all the bright baby colors--both pink and blue, like he had wanted--and the little cork board on the wall that is so far empty. He had thought he would ask Alex what he thought about putting some of Laurens’ things up for J.T., but with him never here. Well…

Screw him, Thomas decides and texts Lafayette, asking him to bring over a box of memorabilia. Lafayette shows up later that afternoon with what Jefferson had hoped he would have--namely, John’s dogtags. They set about going through the box and picking out some items and and they end up putting the tags on the corkboard with a relatively tame letter from John to Hamilton. 

Jefferson thanks Lafayette for bringing him the items and Lafayette just claps him on the back and tells him “good man,” spends a good ten minutes cooing at Toad who has woken up to investigate the new surroundings, and then lets himself out the front door, saying he has an appointment to keep with Washington.

Jefferson makes himself dinner, eats quickly, changes Toad, feeds him, and is in the process of rocking him in the nursery room chair before he gets too fussy, when they hear the door open loudly and shut rather distinctly. Jefferson blinks. He didn’t expect Hamilton back until the week and he checks his memory to determine, yes, it’s still Sunday.

“JEFFERSON!” Hamilton bellows and Thomas rolls his eyes. Even if he was at the extreme far end of the house, he could have heard a normal speaking voice perfectly fine.

“Nursery!” he calls back and rubs J.T.’s back, addressing the baby. “Daddy’s home. Yes, he is. We’ll see if he’ll hold you.”

Hamilton struts through the house and arrives at the nursery, putting one hand on the doorframe. He looks equal parts pissed and embarrassed and he mumbles what he has to say through gritted teeth. “Just wanted to say...sorry. For what I said this week.”

Jefferson looks up and him, but only for a moment so as not to get sucked into Hamilton’s black hole gaze. He returns his attention to J.T. “It’s alright. Want to hold him? Think he’s been missing you.”

“No, I, uh...won’t be long,” Hamilton says and gives a quick scan to anything that’s not Jefferson. His eyes light upon the corkboard. “You’ve redecorated.”

“Yeah,” Jefferson says. “Lafayette brought over--”

But before he can describe the origin of the items or his intention in putting them upon the wall, Hamilton identifies them easily. “What...what are these?” he asks, approaching like he’s afraid a bomb might be detonated in his vicinity. His fingers lift and tuck under the dogtags, moving them within easy viewing range.

“They’re Laurens’--

“--you took Laurens’--” Hamilton turns back to him.

“--Lafayette gave them to me, I--”

“--the fuck, Thomas, what are you--”

“--he said you didn’t want them anymore.”

Hamilton’s hands clench around the metal and he fires as elegantly as gunpowder in a cannon. “You’re right,” he says and rips them from the board. “I don’t want them.” He turns to stalk out of the room, but Jefferson is up as quickly as he can get with a baby on his chest and sets a fussing Toad down in the crib before speeding after Hamilton.

He catches the sleeve of Hamilton’s shirt midway through the living room and Hamilton rips away from his grip like Jefferson is the enemy, rounding on him with spitting rage. “What the fuck, don’t you touch me. You have no right to--”

But Jefferson isn’t having any of it. He grabs Hamilton’s hand relentlessly and pries the metal from him, jerking it away. “And what do you think you’re doing with them, huh?”

“I’m going to throw them down a gutter, is what I’m going to do. I never want to see them again--”

“No,” Jefferson tells him firmly.

“ _No_?” Hamilton hisses. “No? Like you have any right to decide that for me. I don’t want them anymore, so they are _gone_.”

“No,” Jefferson says again.

“What the f--”

“You are not the only one, _Alexander_ , who has a right to these now. You are not the only one in this house that might want them one day.”

Hamilton’s jaw snaps closed and he goes ice cold, his eyes hardening like midnight cement. “Are you telling me what I do and don’t want my son to have? What I do and don’t want to tell my own goddamn _child_?”

“Yes,” Jefferson spits, rising to his full height and not giving a damn that Hamilton’s hands are shaking in anger. “Yes, because you don’t know a motherfucking _thing_ about Toad right now and with the way you’ve been fucking acting, I don’t think that’s likely to change. I don’t think you give a damn about when he likes to sleep or what songs he likes to listen to or what he sounds like when he’s unhappy, what he gurgles when he’s having fun. You don’t give a flying fuck, do you? And you know, okay, go find yourself. Yes, I said you could. But I didn’t think you would do it like this. I was prepared for you not giving a fuck about me, I didn’t think you would…”

Jefferson trails off and crosses his arms, the dogtags still clutched in his fingers. He scoffs and turns half away from Hamilton, but Hamilton steps closer, won’t let him go.

“Would what?” Hamilton asks, voice low and dangerous.

Jefferson shakes his head and stares at the wall, locks his jaw and counts to three to give himself the courage to say it. “Abandon him,” he finishes.

Hamilton’s jaw clenches, his nose begins to wrinkle in anger, and his hands at his sides move closed and then open. He doesn’t say anything for long seconds, so Jefferson speaks up again. “But that baby isn’t going to grow up without anyone. And at least with John’s fucking dogtags, he can remember one of his parents.”

Jefferson turns to walk back down to the nursery, but Hamilton, hissing like a snake and twice as mean, doesn’t let him go without saying his piece. “That’s fine. Because you know I came back here to appease you because you looked so pathetic, but now I don’t feel the need to do that, so fuck you, Jefferson. I’m going to go find someone else. The club will be nice tonight and then I’ll take them away and fuck them silly and forget you ever existed.”

“Fine,” Jefferson growls back at him, practicing keeping his own face cold and calculating, throwing the mask on that he is so very good at wearing and only now realizing Hamilton hasn’t seen for weeks. He squares his shoulders back and relaxes his arms, looks both intimidating and laissez-faire. He cocks his head to the side and raises one eyebrow perfectly up in a condescending, bored manner, “if the only way you can find yourself is at the base of a dick.”

Hamilton seethes, but turns on his heel and makes it to the front door, opens it and closes it with a slam large enough that for one second drowns out the baby’s crying in the background. Jefferson, for his part, stays standing in the living room like immovable stone while he works on calming down the raging beating of his heart.

When he can see past the images floating through his mind and can hear past the crackle of his own anger, he retreats to the nursery, and picks up Toad, tries to soothe him even though it’s futile. The auras floating around the room are poison--Hamilton’s residual like some kind of sharp, citrus-bathed knife blade and Jefferson’s own like a deep, muddy water that has bubbled over death.

Toad picks up on it and is inconsolable, at least for the next half hour while Jefferson tries to alternatively coo at him and repair the fragmented, rotten stench of his own being. In the end, he finds that he can’t quite do it all on his own and so he picks up the phone with Toad still in his arms and calls the only other person he has any desire to talk about his feelings with. Lafayette.

The drive should take him forty-five minutes. He makes it in thirty. 

When Lafayette steps in the house and looks at him, it’s with a good bit of pity and a splash of confusion. Jefferson is in the living room, walking Toad around the coffee table and bouncing him. The baby has stopped full on crying and has simmered down into little sheets of unhappy groaning and Lafayette opens his arms automatically as he steps into the room, hands wide and ready to take him.

But Jefferson clams up, harder than a steel door, and he doesn’t have the strength left to fight his automatic defensive response. He turns from Lafayette, holds Toad tighter, and keeps bouncing. Lafayette sees it for what it is and lowers his hands, takes off his coat instead and drapes it across the couch. Jefferson puts his mouth to the baby’s head and stares off at the wall.

“When you’re ready, mon ami,” Lafayette says and sits down on the couch.

Jefferson keeps walking. And even though Lafayette isn’t holding Toad, even though his arms are empty and he has stationed himself several feet away, his aura bleeds over to them. He is calm, collected, a crystal clear lake, and that quality seeps into both Jefferson and Toad’s bones. Jefferson’s steps become smaller, his pace softer, until he sits down in the chair opposite the couch, the quiet baby cuddled close.

“Your friend’s an ass,” Jefferson starts.

Lafayette gives a small smile and folds his hands across his knee. “My _friends_. But go on.”

“We made this stupid deal…” Jefferson swallows down the lump in his throat and looks at Toad, coos at him to soften the edges of his hard aura. “He said he had to ‘find himself’ and that would take a month. And I was supposed to...I don’t know. Just stay out of his way and let him. If I wanted him at the end of it. But I don’t know if I do now. He’s such a…” Jefferson clicks his teeth together and rocks Toad.

“That’s a pretty unconventional kind of relationship,” Lafayette offers.

Jefferson shrugs. “I thought I was fine with it. Let him go. Be wild. I _was_ fine with it. I am. But not...not like how he’s doing. I can’t _stand_ it that he…”

“That he what?”

Jefferson rubs his fingers over the baby’s back. “That he’s so mean to J.T.”

“How is he mean?”

Jefferson scoffs. “He’s never home. Never. I see him for maybe a couple of minutes a day, _maybe_. And when he _is_ home, he’s in his room. He won’t pick him up, won’t look at him, even ask about him. On the weekends he’s off fucking other people and whatever. You know? Like, if he has to, but...but he could goddamn pick him up once.”

Lafayette offers his arms again and Jefferson, so very reluctantly, gives the baby over to his coddling pseudo-uncle, who lifts him into the air with baby noises and then brings him down to his chest. “You know I was pretty pissed at you,” Lafayette tells him as if this is any surprise. He makes little clucking noises at the baby. “At the beginning.”

“It was pretty obvious, Gilbert.”

Lafayette chuckles. “Oui, oui,” he says and then rattles off a couple of lines to Toad in French. “See,” he says when he returns to the conversation with Jefferson, “when I first met Hamilton, I liked him. Sure. He was mon ami. But even then, it was pretty clear to me what Hamilton was and was not and, honestly, I was very surprised that he found someone the _first_ time around. But he and John seemed to make it work, you know? Even if it was...unorthodox. And I thought ‘ah, this is it. This is what is meant to be.’” He frowns down at J.T. “But then he died, didn’t he? And oh, the world was never right again, non. Not for Hamilton and not for this little one. And when I saw him going to you and I saw you indulging him, I thought...well, I thought he was rebounding with the first thing that would have him and I thought you were taking advantage of him, I’ll be honest. And I was mad at the both of you for that. For being so stupid.”

“And you think different now?”

Lafayette shrugs and keeps his eyes on Toad. “I don’t know what to think.”

“I love him,” Jefferson hisses out, confesses to ears that shouldn’t be hearing the sentiment first. Lafayette glances up at him for one striking moment, but then looks back at the baby, rocks him and continues to comfort. “But I don’t know,” Jefferson continues, “if I should. I feel...I feel as though if I left now, I would never recover. I would break my own heart. But staying here and fighting with him, watching him be so cruel to me and, honestly, being cruel in return...that’s a kind of heartbreak, too. And there’s Toad. What would I do if he were to take him from me? Isn’t it smart to sever that connection now?”

“It probably is.”

“But…” Jefferson smiles, weak and strong all in one space, the tide taking him under and casting him above the surface in a singular movement. “I love him. Both of them.”

“...It was a miracle for Hamilton to find one person who he could keep,” Lafayette says, hands upon the baby Jefferson knows in his heart is his own. “To find two…” Lafayette sighs. “I don’t know if Hamilton is a strong enough person to dedicate himself to that.”

Jefferson looks down at the carpet between them and lifts his foot, sets it back down in the crevices between strands. He curls his bare toes in and watches them lift and separate. “I guess I don’t know if I am, either,” he tells Lafayette honestly.

Gilbert smiles and huggles the baby close, starts to rock side-to-side instead of back-and-forth. “Well, but it seems like you want to try.”


	19. If I Break, Are You Watching?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there is a bit of warning on this one at the end since we are going into Thomas angst about his past. So, be prepared for triggered!Thomas. And, since I don't want to make you guys wait too long in seeing what's up with him, there will be a chapter posted on Sunday this week, too!

Hamilton comes home at the end of week three. The action is so unexpected, so out of the ordinary for Jefferson and Toad’s mundane life that Thomas jumps at the sound of the front door opening and then closing, at first thinking it might be a break-in before remembering that, yes, someone else lives here now. Someone who should be around a lot more and hasn’t set foot in the house since the fight. But, Jefferson reminds himself of the bright side, someone who is here now.

Jefferson comes out of the nursery holding Toad who is half asleep, but refusing to be set down for a nap without being in someone’s arms. Hamilton sees the both of them and looks awkwardly around the house, hands in his pockets, with an expression looking quite a bit more bashful than what Jefferson has ever seen on his face.  “Uh...maybe we should get you a maid,” Hamilton says and Jefferson rolls his eyes so hard he’s afraid that he’ll have to start taking care of the baby blind.

“Nice,” Jefferson tells Hamilton and walks to the chair in the living room, sits down, and starts to rock Toad. “Maybe I would consider cleaning if someone was around to see it.”

Hamilton winces and lifts his right hand out of his pocket to scratch at the back of his neck. “About that.” He looks at the carpet and then back in Jefferson’s direction. “Or, uh, about last time. Look...I’m sorry.” Jefferson rubs Toad’s back and gives a small grunt in acknowledgement. Hamilton shuffles his feet indecisively. “I know I was…” he huffs, “...pretty nasty.”

“You were,” Jefferson agrees, but then softens with a little glance up at him. “...but I kind of was, too.”

“Only in response to me,” Hamilton tells him and continues to stand before him awkwardly. Jefferson doesn’t offer him a seat, merely returns to paying attention to Toad. After a minute, he feels something like the barest form of pressure touching him and realizes with a inhale of breath that Hamilton is curling his aura up around Jefferson. Thomas takes another breath, holds it for a beat, lets it out, takes another. Hamilton’s presence folds up around him like a blanket and settles around his shoulders, all hot spice in his nose, the crashing of wind and the eye of a storm.

Toad stirs, lifts his head up the half an inch that he can and gurgles his interest. He smacks Jefferson’s chest with his hand. Thomas smiles. “He misses you,” he tells Alexander.

Hamilton tenses, gets a wild, panicked look in his eye, before visibly relaxing himself. He moves further into the living room, sits down opposite of Jefferson. “I, um…” He lets go of a frustrated growl and runs his hand through his hair. “Look, I said I needed a month, right? And I...well, I do. I do need it. I do need to feel like myself. But, you know, part of that was just...I don’t know, Jefferson. I have to find a way to make space for a…” He looks at J.T. like he’s a bomb about to go off. “A kid in my life.”

Jefferson scoffs. “So what does that mean?”

“I have things I need to do,” Alex says, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees in front of him. “I have stuff I want to...there are things I can’t do with him around, so I have to do them now.”

Jefferson’s eyebrows raise. “So you’re what? Getting your last hurrah? Smoking your last pack of cigarettes and hoping that will tide you over for a lifetime and you won’t get the itch again?”

“ _No_ ,” Hamilton tells him strongly and glares at him. “No, what I’m saying is...I have to say goodbye. To that part of me.”

“I thought you needed to _find_ it.”

Hamilton shakes his head and locks his jaw, bringing his hands together and pressing at the palm of one of them with the fingers of the other. “I need to find me, yeah. But me has changed. Of course it’s changed. I have…” He takes a shaky breath. “I have a son now. And you.”

“Well, we’re here. Whenever you are ready.”

Hamilton looks back up at him, studies him in the light of the living room, the lamps that cast across Jefferson’s weary face, Toad’s fussing form, the baby paraphernalia scattered to the four corners of the house. “I’m not ready.”

Jefferson sighs. “Well, it _is_ week three.”

“Yes. And I still need...just that little bit more time. So, I’m going to continue to be away for a bit. You have to understand, okay? You just have to. One more week. The rest of this weekend, the week, one more weekend, and then okay. I’ll come back. I swear.”

“Fine,” Jefferson tells him, the tone of his voice as even as he can make it in the thick, tension filled air. He draws his aura into himself, cages it away and boards the holes shut so Hamilton can’t peer inside. With his fingers, he brushes the soft baby hair on top of J.T.’s head.

“But,” Hamilton says.

Jefferson looks up and can’t help the surge of hope he feels at the word, the nervousness of his body as it sings for some touch in the middle of this loneliness.

“I thought I would...stay for a couple of hours or something. Hold him so he doesn’t forget me. And then leave later tonight.”

Jefferson rocks Toad and stares across the space at him. “...really?”

Hamilton just shrugs and after some hesitation, holds out his hands. Jefferson carefully gets up and walks over to him, sets the baby down in his arms and watches as Hamilton awkwardly, but effectively, pulls him in and holds him. Toad reacts instantly, with gurgles and little baby whines, snuggling into the aura that he’s so familiar with. Jefferson smiles, even if it’s a tiny, sad thing, and sits down next to Hamilton. And then, well...they talk.

It’s not about anything important. Just things that have been going on--Madison’s new campaign for the south, how Lafayette and Washington are getting more and more serious, what big client Mulligan has, and Adams being a bitch about the omega bill. Alex keeps talking and he keeps holding Toad and Jefferson finds that his tattered, broken facade starts to repair itself, and the tension in his shoulders finally loosens up after weeks of being wound.

He relaxes into the couch and finds that despite his excitement for Alex, his eyes grow heavy. And with some time, Hamilton notices. “You look tired,” he says, one hand on Toad’s back, the other under him supporting him against his chest.

“Hmm,” Jefferson agrees. “The baby doesn’t really keep regular hours.”

“I imagine not.” Hamilton looks down at the bundle in his arms. “You can go take a nap if you want. I can watch him.”

Jefferson frowns and feels the old tightness returning to his muscles. “Ah, no, that’s...that’s fine. I’m good.”

Hamilton snorts. “I _am_ his father, you know. I’m going to have to learn to take care of him. Besides, it’ll only be a few hours, right? It can be bonding time.”

Jefferson’s frown deepens, but he stares at Toad in Hamilton’s arms and feels the heaviness of his own limbs seeping in. After a moment of study, he nods his consent and stands up, stretches and cracks his bones back into place before heading toward his bedroom and falling into a deep, much needed sleep.

***

He wakes up four hours later, groggy and surrounded by darkness. Outside, the light has really faded and his room is pitch black, the area around him silent except for the far off sound of some kind of generator or pipe. He leans up on his elbow and lets go of a long, involved yawn, before rolling to the side and hitting his lamp on. The bedroom flares dimly to life.

He stands up, walks to the mirror and makes half an effort to control his hair, pulls his clothes back into place, but doesn’t bother to dress in anything nicer than the pajamas he’s wearing. And when he feels like he’s presentable--well, presentable for Hamilton who has become like family to him, not presentable to the rest of the world--he walks out into the living room.

Hamilton isn’t there, where Jefferson expected to find him, still holding Toad and bouncing him to keep him entertained. And Jefferson sees the nursery dark and doesn’t expect they are in there either, nor are they in the kitchen, the dining room, the--

A splashing sound hits Jefferson’s ears and he jerks around so hard he nearly gives himself whiplash. There is light spilling from the half-open bathroom door and he registers what he thought was a generator before as running water. From this angle, he can’t see anyone. Or anything. Can’t see Hamilton. Can’t see--

His feet carry him across the floor so hard, his ankle makes a clacking noise and when he gets to the door, he flings it open the rest of the way so rough it bangs against the opposite wall and causes Hamilton to nearly jump out of his skin. Kneeling beside the bathtub, Hamilton turns to Jefferson, glaring at him for startling them, but Thomas only processes Alex as an afterthought, as inanimate, as backdrop because his mind fills with only this image before him, only the one thing his vision narrows down to see like the focal point in the middle of a blurred photograph. Toad is in the tub. In the middle of water.

Jefferson screams.

He doesn’t process this, either, except belatedly amongst Hamilton’s voice-- _whoa, whoa, Thomas! Thomas, what--_ and he moves as though he is lightning through liquid. He reaches the tub and grips it, his hands wet, so wet. Wet, wet, wet, and he takes Toad from the water--the baby is screaming now, at all the sound and Jefferson’s panicked alarm flying off the walls and bouncing around them like laser points, but Jefferson has him, he has him, he has him, and Toad is screaming, _thank God, thank God, thank God,_ and Jefferson is crying, his mouth open as it tries to gather air and Toad is pulled into him hard, right under his chin to his chest and Thomas stumbles up on the tile and nearly slips and Hamilton yells “Jesus!” as he moves to catch them, but Jefferson has his footing and he flounders over the wet tile, the wet baby on his chest and he feels him warm against his skin and _thank God, thank God, thank God_ , he is taking him away, he is taking him away, he will never let him let go, he will never let him go, he is warm, _thank God_ , he will never let him go…

Thomas collapses in the nursery with Toad in his arms before he even makes it to the crib, his body in a sitting position on the floor and Toad safe with him and he holds him and realizes there in the darkness as Hamilton flies to the doorway and looks at him with wide eyes, the light of the house illuminating the fear and worry in his gaze, that Thomas has been speaking this whole time and even as he hears himself, he can’t stop.

“Warm. Never let you go. Thank God. Warm. Never let you go. Never let you go. Never let you go.”


	20. The Things You Know About Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Please be aware there is some heavy stuff in this chapter including graphic depictions of violence, post-traumatic stress reactions, and the death of a child (an original character, not any Hamilton characters or historical characters). If you want a further detailing of what's to come so you can decide if you want to read or if you just want a summary so that you can skip this chapter, please see the end notes which have a chapter summary.

Jefferson hears them, but their voices don’t matter.

“Christ, Lafayette, take you long enough?”

“It’s a Saturday night, Hamilton. The traffic is horrendous. What... _Jesus_.”

“Yeah.”

“Ce n'est pas bien. How long has he been like this?”

“Three hours.”

“Three...what the fuck happened here?”

“I don’t know, okay? I don’t know! I’ve been trying to talk to him for hours and he gives me nothing. He just keeps sitting there, _rocking_ , and he won’t say anything and he won’t let me take the baby--”

“--have you tried--”

“-- _yes_ , Lafayette, goddammit, I have _tried_ \--”

“--well, I mean just, you know, force him.”

“You try it. He screamed last time so loud, I’m afraid the cops will be called.”

“Maybe they _should_ be called.”

“Lafayette!”

“What? Hamilton, this is _not_ good.”

“I know. Help me, okay? He’s your friend.”

“Oui, oui. What...what happened?”

“Jefferson went to bed. He was tired. I was home, I was taking care of J.T. and he got dirty. And I thought hey, I’d give him a bath. So I was in the bathroom and Thomas woke up and I don’t know. He saw us and freaked the _fuck_ outta dodge, okay?”

“Yeah, alright. Well...you clearly triggered something.”

“ _Clearly_.”

“It’s not good for him to keep holding that baby.”

“I know. I mean, Toad seems fine. He’s just grumbling a little. But I _know_. I thought...well, maybe if it was you? Since you’ve been around more? He would let you?”

“I can try. But he hasn’t let me hold him _that_ much.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, surely you’ve noticed. He can get, ah, how you say…? Defensive. Sometimes. With the baby. Like--”

“--protective?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, I noticed that, too. God, Lafayette, I don’t know what to do. Just try.”

"Okay, yeah, I’ll…”

Lafayette kneels down before him. The nursery light is on. Hamilton had turned it on. Jefferson doesn’t know when. He has lost sense of time. Toad is warm.

“Hey,” Lafayette says, one knee on the carpet, the other propped up with his elbow on it. “Thomas, hi, it’s Gilbert. How, um, are you doing? That’s kind of a dumb question, isn’t it? Yeah. Look, I know you’re having a hard night, but Alex and I would like to help you. But first, can you give me Toad?”

Lafayette reaches for him and Jefferson pulls him in harder, his feet pushing him away from Lafayette on the carpet.

“...okay,” Lafayette continues. “Can you...can you talk to me, though?”

Jefferson is silent.

“Just a little bit.”

Nothing.

“Anything at all.”

No.

“Anything you want to say.”

Quiet.

“How is Toad?”

Thomas keeps rocking back and forth, but that breaks through, the question about the baby in his arms, the whole point of all of this. “Fine,” he says softly.

Lafayette turns to Hamilton and Hamilton gives him a continue signal. Lafayette turns back. “He’s fine?”

“Yes.”

“Is he safe?”

“Yes.”

“Is he tired?”

“No.”

“How do you know?”

Jefferson keeps rocking back and forth, thinks about the signs that indicate to him that Toad isn’t happy right now, but also not upset anymore, that he is a little hungry, not that tired. “He isn’t grumbling.”

“He grumbles when he’s tired?”

“Yes.”

“Well, what does he need right now?”

Jefferson keeps moving, lets the long beats of silence drag out until he’s not sure how long Lafayette has stayed there staring at him. “He’s hungry.”

“Okay,” Lafayette says with a breath of relief. “Look, Thomas...I’ve taken care of him before. I know what to do. I can feed him. If you like.”

“No.”

“You know I would take care of him.”

“No.”

Lafayette looks toward Hamilton in a plea. Hamilton moves from the doorway where he’s been standing to kneel beside both of them. He slowly reaches his hand out and puts it on Jefferson’s knee and Jefferson flinches and clutches Toad so hard the baby begins to whine and both other men jump. “Thomas,” Alex whispers, soft, and it reminds Jefferson of the nights at the hospital, those long, beautiful stretches of time that feel ethereal now when he remembers them, memories in fog of when they used to kiss, when Hamilton’s hands used to be upon him, and also, yes, the first time he held Toad…

“Baby,” Alex says, “Thomas...you were there for me, weren’t you?” Jefferson’s rocking ever so incrementally slows. “That first night, when I asked you...if I should have him. And all through the rough times. The hospital. You were there for me. You would...I know that if I had...if I hadn’t made it, you would have taken care of him.” Jefferson lifts his eyes slowly to Alex’s, sees them shining bright with emotion and desperation. “You take such good care of him now.” Hamilton’s hand on his knee squeezes. “And you’ve taken care of me, too. You’ve been there.” Hamilton smiles and reaches up with his other hand to touch Jefferson’s shoulder, slowly bringing his rocking to a full stop. “And I want to be there for you now. I’m going to be there for you and return the favor. So...let Lafayette take Toad, okay? He’s just going to go into the kitchen and fix him a bottle and feed him. And then you and I can talk. You can tell me whatever you want or you can just sit here and I promise,” Hamilton looks over at Lafayette, “when you want to, we’ll give Toad right back.”

Lafayette nods his agreement with the plan and Jefferson looks between the two of them, his eyes finally focusing on the worried lines in their faces, the tilt to their mouths, the pinch of their eyes. “Give him back,” he says, “whenever I ask?”

“Whenever you ask,” Lafayette repeats.

“And you’re just going to feed him?”

“Yes,” Lafayette scoots a bit closer. “I’ll feed him and then we’ll sit in the living room. That’s all we’ll do.”

Jefferson returns his gaze to Toad, who looks up at him and waves his fist with a little gurgle. “Hey,” Jefferson says to him, “hey...I’m not letting you go. But your Uncle Lafayette, he’s going to take you for a minute, okay? He’ll be nice, I know he will. He’ll take care of you. But I’ll be right here. I promise. I’m not letting you go. I’m not. I--”

“Thomas,” Hamilton interrupts softly.

Jefferson closes his mouth and grinds his teeth, but loosens his arms just enough to let Lafayette remove the baby from his grip. Lafayette pulls J.T. into his arms and quickly casts his gaze up and down his body before cuddling him close and cooing at him. “Okay,” Lafayette says to Hamilton, “he’s fine. Just…take care of Thomas.”

“Yeah,” Hamilton agrees. “Close the door on your way out?”

Lafayette nods and stands up, adjusts Toad in his arms and gives the two of them a glance before leaving the nursery, softly hushing the baby as he goes. He shuts the door and the room becomes instantly smaller, quieter, the air thicker as it encloses the two of them with unshed secrets.

“You know I was just trying to give him a bath,” Hamilton starts.

Jefferson flinches at the word and looks off away from Hamilton at the colorful nursery wall.

“Look, Thomas…you have to tell me what I did wrong. This isn’t healthy and I don’t know what I did to cause this. This isn’t something that we can just let happen again. Do you understand?”

“Toad knows,” Jefferson tells him instead, looking down at his hands that are still shaking and trying desperately to calm them. “I told Toad. The first time I held him, I told him all of it. So he knows. He understands.”

Hamilton frowns, his brow furrowing. “Okay. But _I_ don’t understand. _I_ don’t know. Will you tell me?”

Jefferson shakes his head fiercely and wraps his fingers in the opposite hand, stills them. “Toad is the only person I ever...”

Hamilton pauses and Jefferson focuses on his breathing. In and out. In and out. He wants to get up, wants to rush to the kitchen, grab the baby again. But he suppresses the urge. Waits for Hamilton to speak.

“Why did you tell Toad?”

“I wanted him to know why I was the way I was,” Jefferson answers and removes his hands from each other, presses his fingers into his palms.

“Because you care about him?”

“He’s family now.”

“Aren’t I family?”

“I don’t know.”

Hamilton sighs and runs a hand up through his hair. “You know I will be. Just…can you tell me? Can you trust me?”

Jefferson glances up at him and then quickly away. “It’s horrible.”

“I won’t tell anyone.”

“I don’t know…if I can say it all again.”

“Try?”

Jefferson nods slowly and then sits up straighter, his back braced against the wall. He closes his eyes, counts to ten, and when he opens them again, he looks at Hamilton and remembers him. He remembers the man at the hospital who kissed him, the man who asked him to crawl in that bed. He remembers how Hamilton had looked so pleadingly when he had thought he was going to die. But even further back, he recalls Hamilton’s eyes like thunder at the club, like storms in the street. He calls to memory the way Hamilton said “I can’t give it up,” the way he sounded at that first doctor’s appointment. He remembers Hamilton for more than what Hamilton was before all of this and more than what he even is before him. He remembers Hamilton in the most intimate times and when he is ready, he speaks.

“It’s not a straightforward story, but let me tell it my way…” He pauses to gather strength. “I was the third of ten kids. As you can expect, that was a lot of attention to spread around and my parents were distant at times. My father always was. Was always off doing…things. My mother was attentive to the others, but me…she didn’t like me. She never did. And because she didn’t like me, my siblings didn’t like me, either. It took a long time for me to _really_ understand why, but even when I was little, I saw things. My skin was a different shade than anyone else’s. My eyes were differently shaped. And everyone else, well, they had board straight hair. And then there was me. I didn’t realize what that meant until later and I’ve learned a lot of things about my father since then. He was an alpha and he thought that meant God had given him the world. And any omega he encountered, well, that was surely his to take, right? Especially the waitress at his favorite restaurant. He liked her. My mother was jealous, dead jealous. I can’t decide who I hate more sometimes. Him for what he did to her. Or her for what she did to me.”

He sighs and looks down at his hands again, before glancing up to see Hamilton still listening. “I don’t like cheating, I told you that. But I also hate the fuck out of jealousy. Both my parents’ vices. What you and John did is different, you know? Loving without being jealous. I like that. That’s why I don’t mind this club thing, you know? It’s just…it’s just abandonment I don’t like. Being left. Being…unloved.”

“What does this have to do with Toad?”

“I’m getting there.”

Jefferson takes another big breath. “That’s the picture I have to set for you. So you understand.” He pauses, looks up at the nursery walls again and then speaks slowly, deliberately, and without inflection. “I was eight and it was night and there was a knock on the door. I answered it because I was precocious and because I was always trying to impress my parents so they would notice me. On the other side was a man. He was scowling, I remember, and holding a baby. My father came up behind me and put his hand on my shoulder, turned me aside and spoke to him. The man said ‘she died, this is yours.’ My father told him to go away. He refused and he grabbed me, put the baby in my arms, and he left. My father rushed me into the side room and made me look at him. He made me swear not to leave and not to tell anyone. And he went to talk to my mother.”

“Thomas…” Hamilton says softly.

“I’d never held anything that little, you know? Mother didn’t let me near the little kids. I don’t know what she was afraid of, but I wasn’t allowed to help. I’d never held a baby. I didn’t know what to do. She was so small. So small, Alexander. And such a good baby. She never cried, but I felt her heartbeat, there in my hands. I knew she was alive and when I looked at her, she looked at me. I looked down into her eyes and you know what I saw? They looked like mine. Her skin was like mine. And I knew. You didn’t have to explain it to me and I didn’t have to understand how, but I knew that little girl was my sister. And not my half-sister. Not sort of. But all. Full. This was someone who would understand me. This was someone I connected with. And everything changed for me, then. In that moment. Because for the first time, I…I wasn’t alone. There was someone else. Someone who would love me. And for that brief moment, I was so happy. I was so happy. But then…”

“Thomas,” Hamilton says again, reaching out to put his hand on Jefferson’s knee. “You don’t have to…”

“I do.” Another breath. “My father came back with my mother. And my mother ripped her from my arms. Just took her from me and…and my father told me to go to my room and then left. They rushed away. And I watched after them and I was a good boy. I always did what I was told. But I also…I wanted to be close to her. I wanted to see her again. She was the only one who I ever felt that instant kind of connection with that means _family_ and so I…I followed them.”

“ _Jesus_ ,” Hamilton whispers.

“There was a bathroom downstairs that no one used.”

“Thomas—“

Jefferson holds out his hand to stop Hamilton, lets the pause rest in the air until Alexander nods at him. “There was a bathroom. Downstairs. I stood by the door and I watched them and they…they had the t-tub full of water and then p-put her in it. They held her under. And I watched her, you know? She struggled and she kicked, but…eventually her limbs just stopped. I was eight and I didn’t know much about death, but I knew that was it. I knew it was over and I’d never get to hold her again. I knew she’d never get to cry, never get to…I knew. When their hands came off of her, she just kind of…floated there.”

Hamilton swallows and looks down at the floor, says a quiet “ _shit_ ,” but Jefferson continues.

“I stayed until my parents started to move. And then I ran. They never knew I was there. And I didn’t know what they did with her afterwards. I used to play in the woods and I used to…come across these piles of dirt and I remember I used to think ‘that would be the right size.’ But I don’t know. Maybe they burned her, threw away her bones. Maybe…I don’t know. But she was gone.” He takes a ragged breath. “I never got over it. And I couldn’t get over two things, either. One, that the older and older I got, the more I wondered if maybe she was lucky. My mother kept me because I was the first, but she didn’t do me any favors. My life was miserable—“

“’The worst thing in the world is to grow up unloved.’”

“Yes.”

“And the other thing? That you wondered?”

Jefferson shakes his head and looks at the door, off to where Lafayette and J.T. are in the living room unseen. “She would be alive if I had just held on and not let my mother take her. If I had held tight and never let her go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SUMMARY: Jefferson hasn't let go of Toad for hours and Hamilton can't get him to talk, so he calls Lafayette over. After some coaxing, Lafayette takes the baby into another room and Jefferson tells Hamilton his story. Jefferson is the son of an affair his father had and, as such, his mother didn't like him. One night when he was eight, a man came to the door with a baby claiming it was his father's. Jefferson held the baby for just a moment, but knew she was his full sister and it was finally someone he could connect with and would love him. But his parents took the baby away and told him to go to his room. He didn't listen and followed them and witnessed them drowning the baby in a bathtub. He feels responsible because he feels that she would be alive if he hadn't let them take her away.


	21. Why Can't You Stay?

Jefferson can’t stay away long and it’s not ten minutes before Lafayette has to give the baby back up to him, Hamilton telling him rather firmly that it’s okay. This time, though, Jefferson understands his environment and has the good shame to look embarrassed about his previous actions. He apologizes to Lafayette, tells him he’s better now, and clings to Toad--his arms and aura both a vice. Lafayette explains that he fed J.T. and that he burped him, too. That he probably needs his diaper changed. Jefferson takes the baby away to do that and listens half-heartedly to the conversation Hamilton and Lafayette have, Hamilton reassuring him once more they are fine now.

When Jefferson returns, Lafayette is prepared to leave. Jefferson thanks him for coming over and Hamilton gives him a clap on the back. And then, miraculously, it’s just the three of them. A broken little family unit amidst the storm.

Jefferson bounces Toad. Hamilton looks around them awkwardly. “You know I didn’t mean anything by it. I didn’t know.”

“I know,” Jefferson says, his lips on the baby’s head.

“I mean, you gotta clean him up sometime, Jefferson.”

Thomas rolls his eyes and turns to walk to their favorite sitting spot. “I do. In the sink. In about,” he motions to indicate a half inch, “that much of water. A sponge bath is fine for him, Hamilton.”

Alex nods and follows them. “Alright. I’ll remember to do that in the future.”

“NO,” Jefferson says, rounding on him, “no, no. Absolutely not. You...you just let me do that. From now on. No one else. Just me.”

“Okay,” Hamilton agrees, holding up his hands. “Alright. Whatever you want.”

“Thank you,” Jefferson says with a frown and drops into his chair.

Alex rounds the living room and sits on the couch opposite of him. “You know…” He sighs and lifts his hand, rubs it along his jawline before dropping it to his lap again. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“What?”

“Your sister. You said...if you hadn’t let go of her, she’d be alive. But you were eight, Thomas. There was no way you could have kept your parents from taking her from you. It wasn’t your fault what happened to her.”

Jefferson frowns and looks back down at Toad, who is conked out, sleeping on Jefferson’s chest. He’s had a very long day and Jefferson really should have been paying more attention to his schedules because he’s long overdue from some needed downtime. “...I know,” he tells Hamilton. “I mean…” he frowns and glances up, sees Alex watching him intensely. “My heart doesn’t know.”

Alex keeps his gaze even with Thomas, never breaks eye contact, but he swallows hard and then parts his lips, waits for a second before… “He asked me to go with him.”

Jefferson tilts his head. “What?”

“John.” Hamilton finally squeezes his eyes shut and brings his hand up to rub at his forehead. “John asked me to go with him to North Carolina. To that rally. I said I was too busy, but…” He bites his lip. “What if I had? You know? Maybe we would have been too busy fucking to go or we would have been late. Maybe I would have said I hated ‘L’ street and made him stand on ‘M’ instead. Maybe when it happened, I could have pushed him out of the way or...or maybe it could have been me. And I know, logically, I probably couldn’t have done anything. That’s not how the world works. But, you’re right. My heart doesn’t know.”

Jefferson looks down at Toad and then back up toward Hamilton. “This is what we have now,” he tells him firmly and then lets his aura that has been so locked down like the special combination to the world’s most secure safe go. It floats over to Hamilton and Jefferson wonders if maybe now Hamilton understands the heaviness of the water and dirt that permeates it. But Hamilton accepts it anyway, opens his own bubble to it like this is familiarity and solace. They don’t move from their spots, but they stay there for a moment, their auras holding each other up until Hamilton slowly retreats.

“Been a long day,” he says and Jefferson notes the heaviness of his eyes, the bone weary tug to his skin. “I,” he starts, “was going to leave tonight.”

Jefferson’s body nods, but his heart breaks. “I remember.”

“I need to, um...well, anyway, I thought I’d stay the night. Until you feel a little bit more on your feet.”

“Why can’t you stay?” Jefferson asks suddenly and kicks himself for how desperate it sounds, how small and sharp. “I’m here. Toad’s here. Why can’t you stay?”

“I have to do this, Jefferson,” Hamilton pleads back at him. “I’m sorry. I have to tie up my loose ends. I need to let that part of me go so it doesn’t follow me anymore. I’ll stay the night, but in the morning--”

“Go if you’re going to go,” Jefferson tells him and clams up tight, focuses on the sound of the baby breathing on his chest. “If you don’t want to stay, just _go_.”

“Thomas.”

“ _Go_ , Alex. Just...leave us alone. I want to be with him, anyway. And when you come back next time…” He swallows and gives a rather embarrassing sniff that he doesn’t admit to. “You better fucking stay. Because this is it. I said a month and you don’t get anything more. Next week, when you walk back in those doors, you do it to be here. Or not at all.”

Hamilton nods slowly and stands, but he doesn’t walk away. He watches them for several long moments, but Jefferson refuses to give him any attention, instead pouring all his focus into Toad. “You sure you’re going to be okay?” Alex finally asks and Jefferson refuses to acknowledge him for several long seconds before he gives him a bare, curt nod.

Hamilton sighs, but slowly turns away. And Jefferson waits there, on pins and needles, until he begins moving, finally turns, heads to the door. He listens with sharp ears as the door opens and then shuts, waits for several long minutes until he is sure Hamilton won’t come back in and then he holds Toad close and he lets it out, as much as he needs to.

The last thing he says before he gets control of himself and begins the long process of getting himself and Toad ready for bed, is gratitude. Is a thanks and a true hard fact. “I love you, Toad,” he says, smiling even through his tears. “You’re my baby. And I know you’re not going to leave me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things will start looking up from here! This is the last really angsty chapter.


	22. Every Last Part of Us

Six days later, the door opens. Toad is asleep in the nursery and Jefferson is in the kitchen, washing and putting up dishes. His hair is up again, at the back of his head in a puffball, and he has a dishtowel thrown over his shoulder that he keeps wiping his hands on when he needs it. He doesn’t know this is the day Hamilton is coming home, but he hopes it is. He has been hoping today is the day ever since Hamilton moved in with him.

The week has been hard. This is also true. Toad has been fine, has been a regular old baby, without the knowledge that everything has shifted in the wind. Lafayette has come over frequently and now he has kind of a look in his eye, like he’s waiting for Thomas to explode again. They haven’t talked about it, but with each passing day, it gets a little better. Lafayette’s shoulders unhinge tick by tick and Jefferson proves that he is becoming fine.

Even if he is not fine. The incident has opened up old wounds and now there is salt inside of them, bitter and itching and stark. He holds Toad more, reels him in tighter, is more aware of his breathing, his movements.

And he misses Hamilton something fierce. Misses him each time he turns around--imagines him standing there with warm arms, warm eyes. Imagines the way he kisses, the sound of his voice, the comfort that Thomas feels when he is nearby and shouldn’t it be Thomas giving that comfort to Alex? But he has given it, hasn’t he? And it has been returned. But not now. Not in the cold apartment that is alone except for him and the baby. Hamilton is elsewhere. And Thomas hates that.

He spends his days ignoring the feeling, his nights thinking of it too much. He wonders what he will do if Hamilton doesn’t come back, whether they will yell and argue or fade away like two ships on different courses. He wonders what will happen to Toad, if Hamilton will give him up unable to love him, tear him away from Jefferson who already does. He doesn’t have an answer for any of that. And it makes him angry. Angry and desperately sad. But still he hopes. He has to keep hoping. Every day, there is a new wish. _Come home_.

But even though up until now, that hope has been ill-conceived and has proven wrong at every turn, today it serves him well. Because the door opens. And Alex is, finally, standing there.

Jefferson looks over at the open door and sees him, turns off the running faucet, and waits. Hamilton has a backpack in one hand, a messenger bag slung over his shoulder, and a coat in the other. He walks inside, shuts the door, puts the backpack and coat down just inside and walks to the kitchen toward Jefferson, his hand on the messenger bag and the expression on his face one that Jefferson can’t read. He is closed off--his eyes like glass that reflects, but doesn’t output, his expression clean, even his aura tied up and secured away like they have suddenly stepped into a vacuum chamber devoid of scent.

Jefferson takes the towel off his shoulder, wipes his hands dry with it, and turns around, leans against the sink. “Done fucking people?” he asks and sure, it’s bitter, but he’s been waiting and he just can’t help it.

Hamilton’s jaw works. “Thought you didn’t care about that.”

Jefferson snorts. “I don’t care that there are people you’re screwing, Alex. I just want to know if I’m going to be one of them.” He tosses the towel on the kitchen counter and braces his hands behind him.

“No,” Hamilton tells him with a small glance down and then back up. “You’re not going to be _one of them_. You’re going to the person I come home to.”

“Is that what you’re doing?”

“Yes.”

“All of the sudden, huh?” Jefferson scoffs. “Your month is up and you think that you’ve done enough wild running around to tide you over for the rest of your life?”

“It’s not like that.”

“Then what’s it like?”

“Jesus, you’re making this hard on me.” Alex frowns and his eyes gets darker, colder. His aura bleeds ice.

“Well, you’re not making this easy on me, either,” Jefferson snaps. “I’ve been waiting for you and you haven’t exactly been easy to deal with--”

“--I apologized--”

“--you shouldn’t have left.”

Hamilton sighs and clicks his jaw again. “You’ve been stewing.”

“You’re damn right I’ve been stewing.” Jefferson crosses his arms over his chest. “You just left me. And I don’t understand why you couldn’t have just called it quits last week. What’s one more fuck going to give you, huh, Alex? Why did you need a fucking _month_?”

“I’m a fast writer,” Hamilton says and the darkness of his irises turn from metal into voids of black holes years deep, “but I’m not that fast.”

Jefferson jerks his head back in surprise. “...what?”

Hamilton gives a hefty breath and then slings the messenger bag onto the island counter between them. He snaps it open with deft, aggressive hands, and takes out a binder--pristine white. He slaps it on the counter, gives it a death glare, and then looks away at the wall. Jefferson waits a beat and then pushes himself from the sink, walks over to it.

The cover is standard and there is nothing to set it apart from any of the other billion folders that Jefferson has seen in his line of work, that house legislation and regulation and memos and facts and law. For a moment, he wonders if this is the final version of the omega bill, but no. Hamilton wouldn’t be acting so weird if it was.

No, this is something else. Jefferson opens it.

The cover reads _John Laurens_ and below it _October 28, 1988-August 27, 2016_. Jefferson looks up at Hamilton, but Hamilton won’t make eye contact. He just waves his hand for Jefferson to continue.

Jefferson picks up the binder and flips through it. It’s a biography, starting at the very beginning of what Hamilton knows and going all the way up through John’s death. “ _Alex_ ,” Thomas breathes.

Hamilton grunts and shrugs as if it’s no big deal, his hands clutching the kitchen island.

Jefferson flips to the back. “This is 159 pages.”

“Yes,” Hamilton says softly.

“When did you have the time to…?”

“It’s what I’ve been doing,” Hamilton tells him, voice small and broken. He flicks his gaze to Jefferson’s. “I...I’ve been staying in my old place or with Mulligan or at the office and I’ve been writing. I’ve just been...writing.”

“What do you mean? You haven’t--”

“Gone to the club? No. I mean, once or twice, but I couldn’t...I never took anyone home. _This_ is what I needed to do. _This_.”

“Why didn’t you _tell_ me?”

“Because,” Hamilton tells him with a crack and swallows, “I had to do it alone. If I told you, you’d want to help and this was something I had to do myself. I had to let go of this. I had to do it for him so that he could be free.”

“But...why? Why this?”

“He didn’t…” Hamilton stops himself and breathes deeply for one moment, his eyes shut. When he opens them, he gives himself a beat before continuing. “He didn’t have...his family didn’t know him and I was the only one who...who knew all the pieces. And so I had to do this so he would have something. So he would have a _legacy_.”

“But...but Alex, we have his legacy. We have his stuff, his dogtags, his--”

“That,” Alex cuts him off, voice loud and harsh, “is _not_ him.” He points viciously at the nursery. “Those things are just fucking things, Thomas. I am not this fucking shirt I’m wearing, okay? I’m not the hair tie that holds up my hair, I’m not the bag I carry shit around in, I’m not my damn computer. _I_ am the words I say, the actions I do, what I give to the world. And _no one knew that_ about him. All his words were silent and his actions were dust. I had to...I had to...I _had_ to.”

“Okay,” Thomas says softly and puts the binder down. “Okay. I get that. I’m...I’m sorry. I didn’t know...that was how you felt. I didn’t know any of this. I...I feel like an ass for how I’ve treated you.”

“Don’t,” Hamilton says, holding up his hand. “I shouldn’t have let you think I was off just fucking people. But I...I didn’t want you to know what I was really doing. I didn’t want you to see me like this and besides, I...I guess a part of me just wanted to see if you stuck around.”

“Well, I have,” Jefferson answers him. “Stuck around.”

“I know you have. And so I’m here.” Hamilton shrugs. “I’m done writing and I’m home.”

Jefferson looks down at the binder and then up at Hamilton, who is back to studying the counter. “You feel like yourself?” he asks, even though he’s not sure that that was ever part of it.

Alex laughs bitterly. “No,” he says honestly, “I don’t. But...I feel like I’m who I’m turning into. I’m not...I’m not me like who I was. But that’s never going to go back and I don’t know.” He sighs. “I kind of like the idea of a new me. A new me with you. A new me with Toad. I’m obviously not good at this parent shit, but I look forward and I see us. All three of us. And when he’s old enough, I’ll give him this biography and he’ll know John, too, so John will always be a part of this. Of me. And him. But there’s you…” Alex looks at him, earth eyes and skin touched by the sunlight from the living room window. “Even if I took him right now, I can’t ever erase you from this, either. You’re painted in my legacy just like John is and I can’t ignore that.”

“So…?”

“So…” Hamilton walks around the kitchen island and Jefferson just watches him, the slow deliberate gait he has, until he is in front of Jefferson with nothing standing between them. He takes a big breath and stands up to his full height, looks Jefferson straight in the eye--the warmth he’s been craving--and then he lowers his gaze, lowers his chin, lowers his shoulders, and bows. “So I’m yours.”

It throws itself over Jefferson like a burning light, high and wild in the sky. Hamilton’s submission is thorough, crisp, high like a flame that crackles and refuses to die down. The scent hits him full blast--the spice that he is used to by now, the guava and citrus tinge, the feeling of soil under his toes, a tall spine cast to the horizon. And there it is, yes, the heaviness of the ink and Jefferson knows now while Hamilton smells so much like it, why it clings to him so dark upon his skin, because it is this ink that has redeemed him, it is this ink that has saved him, that has given him back a life they were both afraid would always be broken. Hamilton writes his way out of anything. And he has done so now. Wrote his way into a new chapter and that new chapter is Jefferson and Jefferson knows this, yes, because his own aura has opened up and is flooded so heavy in water and Hamilton, of course, now understands this, too. Now sees Jefferson’s aura for what it is the same as Jefferson sees his own. And they accept it in one another, they know it now, what has come before, what is now, and what will be.

Jefferson’s hand lifts of its own will and touches the back of Hamilton’s neck, drags his head back up to him, and Thomas falls into Alex’s eyes as easily as if he was born for this, made, indeed, for this one moment. Thomas surrounds both of this with his aura, so bitter sweet, but so confident, too, and he casts his comfort to the moment, shows Alex all that he really is--his happiness that Alex is here, the previous desperation he had carried, the desire that is coursing through his veins strong and hot and he has to do something about that, yes, of course he has to.

So he kisses him. Tilts Alex’s chin up and has him, mouth to mouth and soul to soul because that’s what they are now. This is a kind of marriage more binding, more holy, than anything that church or state could ever do. This is the omega having chosen who he wants--because this was always in Hamilton’s power--and Hamilton opens his mouth to Thomas’ questing tongue, kisses him deeply and with an unreserved passion he hasn’t yet let go.

Thomas puts his hand on Alex’s hip, the other still up on his neck, and pushes him back into the counter. Alex lets him, _encourages_ him with a high, wild flame of passion that smells like oranges and tastes like sin and he reaches up his own hand, grabs the fastening that holds Thomas’ hair back and lets it go, pulls it down until he becomes free. He tangles his hands in it and Thomas tangles himself up in Alex and they twist and turn and mold and melt so thoroughly that Thomas loses all track of who is kissing who, who is touching who, who is moaning, who is grabbing, who is running their tongue alongside whose teeth, who is letting go of softly whimpering sounds until Alex’s voice breaks through the fog true and strong and unrelenting and commanding.

“Fuck me,” he says.


	23. Your Skin in My Hands

“Fuck me,” Alex says and he looks like the picture of temptation, pushed up against Thomas’ counter, hair wild with the fingers that have been in it, breath catching, and lips swollen from what Thomas has done to them. He smells like a Caribbean paradise, just as sharp and twice as hot and Thomas wants to taste every inch of him, wants this to be agonizingly slow as he maps out the valleys and peaks, every last goddamn wrinkle and freckle. But then again, he’s been waiting for a very, _very_ long time for this moment and he’s already shaking with the want of it. So he does what he wants to do. Finally. Lets go of the inhibitions that have been so carefully weaved into the fiber of his being and releases his alpha, incredibly, from its shell.

“You got it,” he growls from low in his chest and digs his fingers into Hamilton’s hips, brings him closer and then encourages him up until Hamilton gets with the picture and jumps into Thomas’ arms. Thomas catches him, holds him steady with one hand on his ass and the other around his back. He deposits him on the counter for just long enough to get his mouth on Hamilton’s neck, his teeth scraping skin, just enough time for Hamilton to gasp out in a shaking whimper all the things he wants Thomas to do to him and then Jefferson pulls them both away from the counter, starts walking to his bedroom with Hamilton wrapped around him so prettily.

Thomas is extra cognizant of the fact that Hamilton has yet to see his bed, hasn’t quite made it past the threshold of the room. There are many implications in that, multi-faceted and complexly layered, but Jefferson doesn’t have time for that now. Isn’t going to waste any energy on untangling all the million things that this will change in their lives. Because right now his energy needs to be funneled down into one thing and one thing only: fucking Alexander Hamilton into the _mattress_.

He drops Hamilton unceremoniously on the bed, but Alex grins his enjoyment of it, practically vibrating a happy little omega tune at being handled. And isn’t that something, Jefferson thinks, remembering all the times that Alex refused to be a “good little omega” and how Jefferson loves him for it. But he’s here, now, in the presence of the person he opened up to, came to, _chose_ and Jefferson is not a fool enough to forget that the only reason they are here is because Hamilton is allowing him this.

But still. It’s good to know that Hamilton is willing to be manhandled a bit. Jefferson grins back and slides over him as sinfully and softly as silk, running their clothed bodies together until the sensation of barely-there friction drags a moan from Hamilton’s swollen lips. “Look at that,” Thomas chuckles, letting the tone of his voice dip into boredom, “seems like Alexander Hamilton likes things a little _nasty_.” He reaches up and tangles his fingers in Hamilton’s hair, pulls until Alex has to arch his head back and expose his throat. Jefferson puts his lips there, presses in with his teeth just enough to leave marks. Underneath him, Alex whimpers and floods the room with all kinds of pleasured omega scents and Jefferson licks the spot he’s been worrying at in reward.

“T-Thomas,” Alex moans and the sound is so sweet, so temptingly cloying, that Thomas rolls his hips down on top of him just to hear it again. And hear it he does, a moan that turns into a high, keening whine. Hamilton meets his hips, rocks up into him. One of his hands fists in the covers below them, the other comes up over Jefferson’s back to dig into his shirt. “You’re a goddamn tease,” Hamilton spits when he has his breath in him again. “I said _fuck me_ , not _taunt me_.”

Thomas laughs and bites down on his throat again, pulls at his hair, and pushes Alex down into the mattress with their bodies flush against one another. Alex gasps at the sensation of all of Thomas’ weight and Thomas tells him firmly, “But taunting you is the best part.”

Alex slaps at him, but it’s playful and Thomas lets up just enough to look down into his eyes, the pupils dilated until they have eclipsed the already dark irises and have formed into a black void as warm and wild and complete as the entire universe.

Thomas kisses him. He has to. It’s not even a want at this point, not even a need. It’s something else, something primal, something like law or physics or chemistry or, more probably fate. It is a certainty, an inevitability. It is credence, confidence, validity.  It is what they have been moving toward. And, oh, oh, how good it is. Hamilton tastes like everything Jefferson has ever wanted, sweet and sinful at the same time, comforting and daring, a reminder of yesterday and a promise of tomorrow.

Hamilton’s hands are on him--have slipped between them like little snakes--and they are working the buttons on Thomas’ shirt free, popping them one by one and every time one releases-- _pop--_ Hamilton moans in response, kisses harder, faster, longer, until they are both bruised and giddy with it.

Once he’s finished, Hamilton curls his fingers under the fabric, along Jefferson’s skin hot with his touch, and slides the shirt from his body, tosses it used and forgotten in the corner. Jefferson breaks from his mouth for only enough time to return the favor, to fling Hamilton’s shirt up over his head and chuck it, so casually, behind them. They return to kissing and Jefferson returns to pressing his body against Hamilton's, only now it is skin to skin, warmth to warmth, and their chests rise and fall together as their tongues speak to one another in a language only they understand.

Hamilton, his hand at Thomas’ collarbone, ticks his way down, his fingers sliding over throat and chest to abs to Thomas’ happy trail that has never been happier. He gets to the button of his pants, flicks it open, and slips his hand inside, underneath boxers to touch at Jefferson as he rises. Hamilton chuckles against his lips. “Not compensating for size, I see.”

Jefferson growls back, “You’re going to feel every inch of it in a minute.”

“I better,” Hamilton informs him and ducks his eyes down shyly for a minute before bringing them back up to bear. “I’ve been waiting for it.”

“Have you now?” Jefferson asks him, hands softer in Alex’s hair, running through and stroking him in a mockery of what Hamilton is doing to his cock. “You’ve thought about it?” he asks and leans down to kiss the corner of Hamilton’s mouth. “Tell me what you imagined.”

Jefferson moves his mouth down, kisses Hamilton’s chin and then lower, over his neck, his Adam’s apple. Hamilton gasps, but starts talking in time for Jefferson to feel the rumble of his voice caught in his throat. “Obsessed with your hands…” Hamilton gasps out and arches up into him like a wave that carries in sin. “Think about your hands on my hips, holding me down...think about your arms around me, your nails in my skin.”

“That what you want?”

“Yeah.”

“Rough?”

“ _Yes_.”

“Want me to _take_ you?”

“Hell fucking yeah,” Hamilton says with a moan and moves his leg up until it’s hooked over Jefferson’s own. “Want you to _take me_.” He squeezes Jefferson’s cock. “Want you to make me yours. And _kiss_ me. Do that, too.”

Jefferson chuckles and runs his hands over Hamilton’s skin like it’s a form of poetry laid out before his eyes, because isn’t it? “Those are different things,” he feels compelled to say. “Taking and kissing.”

Hamilton lets his head and shoulders fall back on the bed from where they have been arched. He looks up at Jefferson with open eyes, smooth and unforgiving like the deepness of velvet. “Aren’t _you_ both?” he asks. “Aren’t we?” And Jefferson finds that he is right.

He kisses him. Molds his body to him. And while he is tongue deep in Hamilton’s mouth, he slides his hands in between them, works at Hamilton’s own pants and around the wet, hot dance of their tongues, teeth that clack together, lips that devour--close to the feel of the roof of Hamilton’s mouth and the smoothness of the back of his canines--Jefferson comes undone. He bubbles out with vitality, aggression, an intense desire to at once make them one in the same and he touches Hamilton for the first time, grabs his cock in his hand and bites down on Hamilton’s tongue just enough to hear the whimper, to feel the shiver as it cascades over Hamilton’s skin.

Hamilton lifts his ass, rolls his hips against Jefferson’s own hard, hot groin, and Jefferson digs nails into fabric, starts ripping down and they have to come apart for one moment to finish the shedding of their clothing like snakes writhing in the spring or cocoons bursting free or the sharp high howl of a new animal.

When Alex’s skin is naked, Thomas’ hands are upon him. And he knows he will release him.

“Thomas,” Alex whines and Jefferson is there, a hand in his gorgeous, flowing hair, and a body that comes over him rock solid to pin him to the mattress. “You’re already making me…” He keens and throws his head back, exposing his throat. He lifts his hips and lets his ass search for Thomas and his aura spikes wild and hot and sinfully musky. Thomas puts his nose in Hamilton’s throat, drinks him in and with the hand not in his hair, he reaches down, runs the tips of his fingers over Hamilton’s stomach, his hipbone, around to his ass cheek and then, with one finger, inside.

Hamilton’s mouth falls open, the air rushes out of his lungs in a primal gasp and Jefferson is very, very, _very_ aware of how long it’s been for Hamilton and how long it’s been for himself, too, all those aching months alone and untouched. Alex is already wet, already slick inside and Jefferson’s hands just open him up further as they slide, move, pretend at thrusting motions and a preamble of what’s to come.

Some alphas don’t do this. Jefferson knows that. Many of them like to just walk in and take, assume that the person lying in front of them is absolutely ready. It can be a pride thing, too, the assumption that they’ve already made them want it enough that they don’t have to touch, just have to devour. But Jefferson likes this. Likes the touch of it, the slow, deliberate slide of it. Likes the tease and the time and making absolutely sure that--

Hamilton arches up off the bed and cries out in pleasure when Jefferson finds just the right spot inside of him, nearly shaking with his want in the moment. Jefferson grins at him, savage teeth white and uncivilized at the same time. “Oh, he likes it,” Jefferson mocks and Hamilton cracks Jefferson’s shoulder with his knuckles hard enough to leave a bruise, but can’t keep the smile off his face in the middle of it.

“You dick--” he gasps out.

“--will be in you,” Jefferson finishes and presses his body down into Hamilton, reminding him of his presence with his weight. “When you beg me for it. Say my name, Alexander. Say who it is you want fucking you.”

Hamilton keens, high and open into the air and pushes his hips down onto Jefferson’s fingers. “Thomas,” he says in a near wail, “Thomas Jefferson, the--” He breaks himself off into a moan before continuing, “the dick who won’t fuck me.”

“That sounds like a challenge,” Thomas tells him and before Hamilton can think of a verbal jab to throw back in his face, Jefferson removes his fingers and positions himself quickly, sliding just the head inside. Hamilton’s hand flies up to his shoulder, grips his skin with nails and he fights back another groan, his body already writhing and dotted with sweat under Jefferson.

Jefferson puts one hand on Hamilton’s leg, guides it up and over his back and his other arm he slides under Hamilton so he can lift Hamilton up to him, find the angle he wants. He pushes in deliberately slow, listening with rapt attention and filing away every sound Hamilton makes for later study. He leans down, presses his lips to Hamilton’s throat and sucks at a spot he finds particularly appealing. The rumbles he hears in Hamilton’s throat are sin, so he whispers his name there, against his throat heavy with the smell of citrus, passion, and sex. “Hamilton,” he mutters and the fingers in his shoulder dig in deeper.

“ _Alexander,_ ” Hamilton corrects. “My name is Alexander...with you.”

Thomas smiles against Hamilton's throat as he swallows and lifts his eyes to find Alex’s in the darkened bedroom. “Alexander,” he agrees and pushes in just that bit more until he is fully inside. Hamilton’s eyes roll back in his head and he pushes his chest up toward Jefferson. Jefferson tightens his arm that has hold of him and brings him up until they can kiss while Thomas begins a rhythm that is slow, but growing in intensity.

Alex whimpers and ticks his hips with Thomas as they move, demanding--like he always does--more and more and more. And, oh, Thomas is willing to give it to him, to give him everything, anything he might want. Thomas is taken, swept away, _breathless_ with the force that is below him, in awe of the man that he is currently inside, currently rocking in, and getting closer and closer and closer…

Thomas whimpers himself and Alex whines back at him, their tongues obstacles that break up the sounds in each others’ mouths. And Thomas’ thrusts get deeper, get wilder, until he is really fucking him near senselessly, the sound of flesh on flesh heavy in the room. Alex stutters and then cries out with high sounds that resemble laughs in their enjoyment and encourages Thomas onward and onward until Thomas drops over him, puts teeth in his neck this time--just enough to make a mark, to be a _reminder_ \--and thrusts so hard, Alex slides up on the bed.

The groan that comes out of Alex’s mouth is animalistic, near _barbaric_ and Thomas responds with a loud, rumbling growl that makes Alex shiver, makes him buck uselessly where Thomas has him pinned. “Yes,” Alex hisses between his teeth and Thomas bites down harder, fucks as deeply as he can, drawing out until he nearly slips from Alex and then shoving back in to the hilt. Alex floods his senses with sound, taste, touch, and _smell_ \--the smell of him like the wild, hot ocean crashing somewhere in the middle of the sea where man has yet to set foot. He’s shaking beneath him, writhing, near deranged in the motion of his body and Thomas grins against his skin, releases it and puts his mouth next to Alex’s ear.

“You don’t get to come,” he tells him and Alex groans so loudly it sounds like a jackhammer, “until _I_ tell you to.” And even though he has said the command in such a fierce tone of voice, he slides his hand between them and wraps it around Alex’s cock, stroking it firm and rough. Alex bites his lip and slams his head back into the bed, lets go of a muffled moan and twitches so hard as he holds himself back. Jefferson grins at his own success and licks at Alex’s collarbone that is arching up off the bed.

He is shivering himself and he has to put the feel of Alex hot and slick on him in the back of his mind. Because the sensation now is perfect, too perfect, and no one can last long like this, not with Alexander Hamilton below them, rocking his hips in the rhythm of Jefferson’s stroking, in the rhythm of his _fucking_ as he hits him hard and fast and twists his wrist just right at the head. No, _no_ _one_ has that kind of willpower in the face of Hamilton’s lips swollen and parted, his eyes dark, sinful prisons where Jefferson can only hope he’ll be caged for the rest of his life.

“I love you,” Alex says in a rush of breath like it takes all his energy and, conversely, no energy at all. 

Jefferson stops thrusting and his hand on Hamilton stutters. “W-what?”

“I love you,” Alex says and then glances down between them. “Shit, I didn’t say stop fucking me.”

“What?” Jefferson says again because it sounds like a good thing to say.

“I love you,” Alex repeats again and whines as he tries to thrust himself down onto Jefferson. Jefferson holds him fast and won’t let him. “I meant to tell you, but I…”

“In the middle of _sex_ , Alex?”

Alexander rolls his eyes and then drops his tense shoulders down on the bed. He throws his head back and moans as he tries to rock again. “Okay, but I _do_.”

Jefferson rolls his eyes, but can’t help feeling a bit impatient himself that they continue with their activities…

“You believe me, right?” Alex asks and Jefferson looks down at him--hair splayed all over the mattress, chest still heaving, sweat and sex and sin clinging to him like this season’s fashion.

“Yes,” he answers and chuckles, “it’s just a very _Alex_ thing to do.” He gathers them back together and puts his forehead up on Alex’s, slides his fingers into the long strands of his hair. “Telling a man you love him while he’s fucking you.”

“He’s not fucking me now,” Alex feels the need to inform him with sparkling eyes and a malicious grin on his lips.

“Yes, he is,” Thomas corrects him and kisses him like the world is ending. “And he loves you, too.” With a grin, he falls back down on the bed with Alex and goes back to it, only now it’s not so much hard as it is _deep_ , not so rough as it _connecting_ , not so much _sex_ as it is, yes, Alex has already said it-- _love_. Their bodies roll together in perfect harmony, their lips and teeth and tongue twirl around one another like they have been waiting for this all their lives, and their auras touch and then collide, bubble into one another so fluently it’s like they are forming a new language. When Alex moans, Thomas moans. When Thomas whimpers, Alex whimpers. Thomas touches him before he asks. Alex rocks himself before Thomas requests. And they ride like this, on some kind of high, crashing wave that carries them onward beyond what is happening now with their bodies, beyond this one, singular moment in time, but to something like a new future, something like a new them, a new _Alexander_ and a new _Thomas_ and a new _world_.

It’s impossible to tell who comes first. Alex arches at the same time that Thomas is about to inform him of his own climax. Thomas slams forward into him, goes as deep as possible and right to the hilt and Alex cries out, shakes, and digs his nails in, finishing on their bodies pressed together. Thomas rides it out as much as he can, thrusting for a few seconds afterward and Alex melts like a puddle beneath him, languid and satisfied like a cat in the sun.

Thomas chuckles at him, when his fuzzy brain gets back online to react, and Alex just laughs back.

“I _hate_ ,” Alex informs him, loose and sleepily, “how good you are at that.”

Thomas grins. “Sounds to me like you actually liked it quite a lot.” He pulls out and flops over by Alex’s side, staring up at the ceiling. They are quiet for a long time in a kind of domestic comfortable silence bliss, until Alex turns his head to him and kisses his shoulder with more feeling than Thomas used to give him credit for.

“I do love you,” he says, softly into the room. “I have for a long time. I just wasn’t--”

“I know,” Thomas cuts him off. “And I do love you, too. More than anything. You don’t have to explain anything to me. I know.”

“I didn’t used to like it. That I felt this way.”

“Do you now?”

Alex smiles softer than Thomas has ever seen him do and a light floods into his eyes where Thomas used to call them dark. They become less like a void, less like a pit or an ending and more like the beginning of something. Like the start of the whole entire universe. “Now?” Alex answers him, his voice a warm echo of their bodies. “Now I wouldn't wish for anything else.”


	24. Your Promise to Him and to Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the last "chapter" of the fic! There will be one more posted on Sunday which is an epilogue and I hope you guys like it! It's in Toad's perspective when he's all grown up, so we get to see what happened throughout his life. :)

Jefferson wakes and it is soft. That’s the first thing his mind tells him, fuzzy from the events of yesterday. The covers surround him, the bed cradles him, and the light is just barely there, a streak of dawn. And he’s not alone. In fact, _they_ are not alone.

Hamilton is sitting next to him, dressed, his back propped against the headboard and Toad is in his arms. Jefferson keeps himself relaxed and doesn’t lift his head because he wants to absorb as much of this moment as he can, remember it for later in crystal clear quality, this glimpse of Hamilton and his baby.

Because Hamilton is singing. Softly, in Spanish, a little song or nursery rhyme he must have heard once--maybe it was his mother’s, a caregiver’s, someone in this world who cared for him. And he’s singing it now, under his breath so as not to wake up Jefferson and it blends into the room so quietly, so perfectly, that Thomas feels he has been transported. That this is no longer his bedroom, no longer his house, but some form of cloud hovering over some fantastical land and Hamilton’s smooth, velvety voice is the anthem.

Toad, in Alex’s arms, is listening with as rapt attention as Thomas is, his eyes wide up at his father, his mouth open as he listens, and his little hands out to the side clenched in fists, but more like he is intensely active in the experience rather than upset. The moment continues on, the three of them with Hamilton rocking Toad softly and Jefferson right beside him. And then the song ends, trails to its natural conclusion, and Alex smiles so warmly at J.T. and says, right as rain, “Your daddy’s awake.”

Jefferson grumbles and pulls himself up so he is propped on his elbow on his side. “How long did you know?”

“Oh, I am an astute man,” Hamilton informs him and smiles at Toad once more. “Yes, I am,” he says in baby talk. “Why, yes I am!”

Thomas laughs and reaches down to adjust the pajama pants he had put on halfway through the night that have since gotten twisted. “You better stop that before someone accuses you of taking to parenthood.”

Hamilton shrugs and cuddles Toad close. “Never thought I would, but it’s not the worst thing in the world, I guess. He started crying a while ago. We’ve been up for a _long_ time.”

“Oh, shit!” Thomas says and sits up faster. “He was crying? Why didn’t I wake up? I’m usually a light sleeper, I swear. I don’t let him--”

“It’s fine,” Alex tells him with a chuckle. “You would have probably shot right awake if I hadn’t grabbed him so quickly. It was kind of an excuse. To spend a bit of time with him.”

Thomas softens, but gives a little grumble. He adjusts himself so he’s sitting braced on the headboard as well. Alex looks up and down Toad’s features. “He does look like me,” he says, almost as an afterthought. “John, too. I can see both of us. Although…” He gives an intimate smile Thomas’ way. “I think he’s going to grow up and _act_ like you, you’ve been spending so much time with him.”

Thomas grins. “Not at this rate. He can be a terror just like his father.”

Alex laughs. “We’re going to have to decide on terminology. I kind of like ‘papa.’” He lifts Toad until he can boop his nose with his own. “He’s a terror like his _papa_.”

“I might have to record this for later blackmail,” Jefferson informs him.

“Don’t you _dare_ , you dickwad,” Hamilton says with a glare. “And here I was, trying to create a family moment.”

“Well, to be fair,” Thomas says and wraps his arm around Hamilton’s waist, “it wouldn’t be _our_ family without a _little_ bit of bickering.”

“Our family,” Hamilton repeats and snuggles into Jefferson’s arms. “You think it’s our family?”

“Well, you love me. And I love you. And we both can’t stop staring at Toad. So I think, yeah...it’s got to be.”

“You, me, Toad, and a ghost,” Hamilton whispers.

“A memory,” Jefferson corrects.

Hamilton scoffs and looks at him. “That’s so disgusting,” he says, but his eyes tell a different story, speak of a gratitude. Thomas smiles back at him and leans forward, has to kiss him for the moment, which lasts about half as long as Jefferson wants it to until Toad gets fussy. Thomas pulls back with a chuckle.

“Okay, let me take him. I know all his sweet spots.”

“Jesus,” Hamilton says with a groan, “how much do I have to learn?”

“Eh.” Jefferson picks Toad up out of Hamilton’s arms and stands up off the bed to start walking him around the room. “Papa’s a quick study, isn’t he, Toad?”

“You are such an ass,” Hamilton chuckles after him as he walks away.

***

Thomas is about to settle in to making them both breakfast while Hamilton finishes his shower--Thomas had gone first, so it’s Alex’s turn--when both of their phones ding with texts. A quick glance over to Hamilton's on the counter confirms that they received the same exact message--a brunch invite from Lafayette. So Thomas, with an arch to his eyebrow, simply puts the pots and pans back away and walks over to the bathroom door, knocks and speaks through it to tell Hamilton they are going out after all. There’s only mild grumbling from the other side, so Thomas takes it as a yes.

When Hamilton gets out of the shower, ringing his wet hair, Jefferson has already dressed Toad in his going-out clothes and the baby’s face is purple in anger at the little sock-shoes Jefferson has on so he won’t get too cold. Hamilton gives a sharp bark of laughter. “Doesn’t like being dressed for outside?” he asks.

Thomas shrugs and picks Toad up, carrying him around and trying to get him back into a better attitude. “Honestly, he hasn’t had it happen much, so he’s just not used to it. Uncle Lafayette normally gets our groceries, doesn’t he, Toad?”

Toad just lets go of a loud wailing cry like Jefferson has invented some form of shoe-baby-torture.

“Awww,” Hamilton says with another laugh, “that poor baby!”

Jefferson rolls his eyes, but is grinning, too. “See how _you_ feel when I make you put _your_ shoes on.”

Hamilton grumbles, but goes into the guest room that he has made his own. Only this time, instead of his usual shutting of the door the instant he is inside, he leaves it open so he can talk to Jefferson as he sifts through his closet. “Why does he want to do brunch anyway? And who calls it ‘brunch?’”

“Lord only knows,” Jefferson says and pulls the baby carrier from the front living room closet, setting Toad down in it and watching his eyes get comically wide. Jefferson can just imagine the thought flitting across his mind-- _the fuck is this?!?_ \--while Jefferson buckles him in securely. He sniffles and then wails again. “Your son’s being a pain!” Jefferson calls to Hamilton.

Hamilton pops out with a shirt on, but nothing but boxers below. “He’s a Hamilton. We like our freedom,” he says and then turns around to go back for his pants.

“He’s a Hamilton,” Jefferson says to Toad, much quieter, “and Hamiltons are little _whiners_.” Thomas takes the carrier with Toad in it and walks to the nursery, gets the little plastic set of keys Toad likes to hear jingle and makes an appropriate amount of noise for Toad to get distracted. The baby quiets into just tiny grumbles at about the same time that Hamilton comes around the corner, fully dressed, his hair still a damn, board-straight mess that reminds Jefferson briefly of the that very first time Hamilton was in his house--clean, but exhausted, and weary with what had and was about to happen.

But that’s where the comparison stops, Thomas notes. Because that man--scared, prideful, confident, and worried all at once--is not the man in front of him. The man with a smile on his face. The man practically glowing. The man walking _toward_ Thomas and the baby with mirth in his eyes and something that speaks of a connection that is not likely to ever sever.

Hamilton reaches him and puts a hand on his chest, leans up and kisses him rather chaste and soft for anything Jefferson had ever thought Hamilton was capable of. “You’re a good man, Thomas Jefferson,” he says and then reaches down to take the baby carrier from him.

“A good man who loves you,” Thomas reminds him.

Alex’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles. “Let’s go see what this damn Frenchman wants.”

***

The restaurant is a quaint, tiny, French-style,hole-in-the-wall because of _course_ it is and Jefferson and Hamilton settle down at a back table long before Lafayette has arrived. Toad is gurgling happily now and smacking around his feet--unclothed since Jefferson is pretty damn baby-whipped and once they arrived inside, he determined it was warm enough to take the shoes off. Both men spend an appropriate amount of time cooing at the baby and discussing innocuous things like the weather until Lafayette comes swirling in like the world’s most graceful and elegant tornado, a smile on his lips and an aura about him that is practically _glowing_.

“CONGRATULATIONS!” he says, whipping his sunglasses off and clasping his hands.

Jefferson and Hamilton stare at him before Hamilton opens his mouth slowly. “We haven’t even _told_ you any news yet.”

“Oh, please, I bet I saw it before you did.” Lafayette pulls out the chair opposite them and sits down it in before he clues into their confused faces. He frowns. “Oh...please tell me you know.”

“Know what?” Jefferson asks.

Lafayette lets an uncharacteristically high laugh go. “Oh my _lord_ , did _Alexander Hamilton_ and _Thomas Jefferson_ forget to check their _emails_ this morning?”

“Emai--” Hamilton doesn’t finish his sentence before both phones are out of pockets and the email apps pulled up to see. “AH! The omega bill passed?!?”

“The bill passed!” Lafayette says with a throw of his hands up in the air. “We’re not second class citizens anymore!”

Jefferson laughs disbelievingly. “Wow, it really did pass. Without complaint?”

Lafayette shakes his head and gives a chuckle. “Well, I’m sure John Adams is complaining into a whiskey glass, but no _official_ complaints, no. Everything is going well!”

“That’s amazing,” Hamilton says with a big grin on his face, but he doesn’t get much farther before Lafayette keys into their previous discussion.

“Wait, you haven’t told me _what_ news yet?” Lafayette asks, looking between the two of them.

Hamilton gives a little bashful smile to Jefferson. “Well, uh…I guess you can say we worked things out.” Hamilton reaches slowly, but deliberately for Jefferson’s hand and threads their fingers together, putting their joint hands on the table.

Lafayette’s smile is soft and warm. “Well, then, congratulations again. How does Toad feel about that?” He looks down at the baby who lets go of a spit bubble and then gurgles up at him. “Seems like he’s alright with it.”

“Well, he better be,” Hamilton says, “because he’s already got three fathers and there’s nothing he can do about that.”

“Does that mean,” Lafayette fiddles with his brunch menu, “you are going to give in and get rid of that _ridiculous_ and unsanitary apartment, Alex?”

Hamilton rolls his eyes. “ _Yes_ , I am going to get rid of the apartment. And _officially_ move in.” Jefferson grins and removes his hand from Alex’s so he can wrap his arm around him. “And I even thought…” Hamilton sighs. “You could bring John’s stuff over, too, and we can store it in a closet or something where I don’t have to see it. And I’ll even agree to…” He wrinkles his nose. “Put up the dogtags again. I mean, Thomas was right. It’s not _just_ me anymore.”

“And right next to them on the shelf, we’ll put the biography,” Jefferson agrees.

Lafayette blinks. “What biography?”

Hamilton’s face flushes and he glares at Jefferson, but more in a teasing way than anything else. “I wrote, ah...a biography. For John.”

Lafayette stares at him and then takes in a sharp breath. “A bio--”

“ _You can’t read it_ ,” Hamilton tells him firmly and Lafayette blinks again. “I mean, not...for awhile. I don’t want to do anything with it until Toad gets to read it. It’s for him and then...and then we’ll publish it. Give John his legacy. But I want Toad to see it before it goes to any print. Before anyone else reads it.”

Lafayette nods slowly. “Alright. I think that’s very reasonable. So a biography and his dogtags, with Toad.”

“Yes,” Jefferson says, “and that way he can be with us. And Toad can get to know him as best as he can.” He squeezes Alex’s shoulder and Alex gives him a small smile of gratitude.

“And,” Lafayette continues, “I suppose the two of you are going back to work soon.” He picks up one of the glasses of water the waiter had dropped off when Jefferson and Hamilton sat down and sips at it.

“Well, yes,” Jefferson says. “I’ll have to go back sometime.” He frowns. “Although I don’t like it.”

“You don’t like _work_?” Hamilton says with a scoff.

“No,” Jefferson corrects him, rolling his eyes, “I just don’t want to leave _Toad_ with someone who…” He frowns again. “Doesn’t understand.”

“Well,” Lafayette says with a grin too large and and excitement practically bubbling off his skin. “Leave him with me!”

“With you?”

“Yes!” Another hand clap. “I’m quitting work!”

“ _What?!?_ ” Hamilton asks in outrage. “But you love your job! Who’s going to be the French ambassador? What are we going to do at work without you? What are _you_ going to do without _work_? What do you have in mind, huh? Why? _Why_?”

“Because,” Lafayette says with a little sly smile and reaches down to put his hand flat on his stomach. “I have other priorities now.”

Jefferson blinks rapidly, but Hamilton has completely missed the clues. _Glowing_ , Jefferson thinks. Hand on stomach. Overly excited. And drinking water instead of what he normally does, which is order wine the second he enters the room…

Hamilton is continuing to ramble about emails and bills and policies and upward trajectories and everything in the world he can think of to convince Lafayette that he doesn’t want to make the biggest mistake of his life and he keeps grilling him, _interrogating_ why, why, why, so Jefferson says it. Perhaps a little louder than he should. “You’re knocked up!”

Lafayette shushes him, but grins. Hamilton stills and then sputters. Toad burps and then spits up all over his shirt.

“Lord,” Jefferson continues, “Washington went and did it. He knocked you up. Didn’t he?”

“Washington and I,” Lafayette says with a careful glance around the room, “are _unwed_ , so stop your fussing. But that is going to change in about, oh...two weeks?” He can’t keep the godawful glowing grin from his mouth. “And yes. I am going to be a _father_. This is going to be the best nine months of my life.”

“Fat chance,” Hamilton scoffs and then pauses. “With an emphasis on _fat_.”

Lafayette gives him a scolding glare. Hamilton refuses to apologize. Jefferson rolls his eyes and then picks up Toad to take him to the bathroom. But before he can make it all of the way, Hamilton tugs his sleeve to hold him there and then asks Lafayette to interrupt the _pregnancy is a beautiful thing if you let it be, Alex_ rant, “You free tomorrow? If all you're going to do is waltz around the living room picking out pregnancy clothing and learning nursery rhymes.”

Lafayette purses his lips. “Being prepared for the miracle of life is not a _bad_ thing, Alexander. But yes. I am free. Why?”

Hamilton grins. “Thought you might babysit.” He turns his head to look up at Jefferson and smiles with those eyes, earth colored and the exact same layers deep as the depth of Thomas’ soul. “Tomorrow's Saturday. And I hear that Buffalo Wild Wings has half off appetizers.”


	25. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's complete! And it's over! :( Thank you to all the readers and commenters that have stuck with this story and given it their precious time! It means so much to me to hear that you guys like the characters and the writing! I hope you like this epilogue, which is from grown-up-Toad's perspective. And look, he even has two siblings! And no, Hamilton didn't like pregnancy any better the second or third time. :D 
> 
> Thank you all again!!!

Five years in Madagascar--two with the Peace Corps and three with an independent volunteer company focused on civic improvement--but John’s finally home.

The trip is long, horrendously so. He’s forgotten how exhausting air travel can be, not to mention customs, jet lags, layovers, bus schedules, navigating the city he is not at all used to anymore to get to his family’s home in New York. The closest thing to a “city” he’s seen in recent years, to be frank, was a collection of about twenty houses. This is as foreign to him now as the great, wide expanse of the African landscape had been when he first arrived five years ago. But the city is familiar, too, deep in his bones. He grew up here, after all. New York is his blood and the fiber of his nerves. But still, it takes some re-adjusting to. English, as well, since he’s gotten so used to Malagasy, it’s become his default language. But that will all settle, he knows. And the most important thing is that he is _home_.

In the entire time he’s been gone, he’s come back twice. The first time was for his parents’ twentieth anniversary celebration which had been a _doozy_ of a party considering this was the first time in American history that the public could celebrate a milestone of its first presidential couple--Jefferson for two terms and Hamilton for two terms had basically meant that for the majority of his childhood, John hadn’t got to see much else besides the walls of the White House. And even though the anniversary had happened after both presidencies were complete, it hadn’t been _that_ long in the eyes of America and so of course there was a gala that was practically vibrating with energy. John’s pretty sure he got to meet every single politician that night, Jefferson’s arm strong around his shoulders as he introduced John over and over with the phrase, “This is my son. He’s in the _Peace Corps_.”

John smiles at the memory as he climbs in the taxi that will finally take him from the airport to home. Of course, he thinks, stuck in reminiscence, Dad carting me around everywhere didn’t make Caleb very happy. Poor Caleb, the middle child, with Jefferson’s high-flung hair and Hamilton’s sharp nose, who looked upon politics like Hamilton looked upon dentistry and neither of them could ever agree to the importance of the other’s profession. But ah well. They loved Caleb with all their heart, John knew that, and he was quite frankly the reason that the family stayed sane half the time. And if John was being absolutely truthful, well, Caleb was The Good Child. Or at least the sweet child, the quiet child, the law-abiding child. Not John who ran away to Africa on a whim to get closer to a father he never got to know. And certainly not their third brother, Henry, who if John remembers correctly that night had spent about half the time trying to sell pot to the ambassador from Germany and the other half trying to get into the pants of Lafayette and Washington’s third kid of eight, Jamie, bless their soul.

But the party had been wonderful. Absolutely breathtaking, but it had better have been with all the staff that had been hired to make it that way. Jefferson and Hamilton had toasted their engagement all those years ago with practiced, politician words that were just about “love” and “connection” instead of “law” and “reelection.” What they _hadn’t_ said, even though John knows it to be 100% true, is that about two years before Jefferson ran for his first term, they had _devised_ the engagement as a ploy to make Jefferson a “family man” and poor Caleb had to live with the knowledge that he was here because Hamilton had gotten pregnant to make Jefferson even _more_ of a family man. John loves his parents, he does, but never let it be said that they ever stopped being Alexander Hamilton and Thomas Jefferson.

But they love each other. Oh, John knows that. He can tell it in the smiles they always give one another, the squeeze of a shoulder or a hand, a kiss when they think the kids aren’t looking, the soft whispers or the louder bickering. It all leads up to one thing: his parents are in love. And John hopes one day he can find a love as strong, as hardy, and as pure, as his parents have.

That’s one of the reasons he went to Africa in the first place. Not to find love there, no, but to find _himself_ so that he could be ready for love one day. There were, and have always been, three influences that hang over John, swirling in his blood. The first is Thomas Jefferson and John has never had to go far to figure out the Thomas side of him. After all, wasn’t his dad there, every step of the way, like a warm and welcome shadow just behind him ready to catch him if he fell, ready to push him when he needed to be pushed? Thomas Jefferson: the soccer mom president. John practically learned to recite the Declaration of Independence before he learned to color. The oval office was his playpen, committee meetings recess. And Thomas has always been open with him, willing to talk about anything and everything and even though John can have quite a flare of Hamilton righteousness, he’s always felt that his personality mixes with Jefferson’s very well.

The second influence was, of course, Hamilton, and despite how Hamilton has been there every step of the way, just like Jefferson, he remains the hardest to pin down for John. The hardest to grasp. But that is why he is _back_ here at home and he was thinking of why he _left_.

Well, he left for the third, didn’t he? A man he never saw, but has read about in books--Hamilton’s and others--a man he has seen pictures of, has touched the objects that belong to him, but a man, nevertheless, mysterious. The questions had been a cloud hanging over him, a fog obscuring his vision: who was he? how are you like him? how are you different from him?

So he had gone to Africa. Social change seemed to be the quickest way to get to his Laurens’ side of being, despite what it had cost his parents. Hamilton didn’t like it at all, venomously said so, tried to talk him out of it no less than twenty times and even tried to get him on a no-fly list when he refused to back down. Jefferson had gotten a hold of him for it, too, and they had had a long, _long_ talk one March night that had lasted near six hours in which his dad begged him to stay for Alex’s sake since Thomas didn’t know if either of them could take it if something were to happen.

But John was adamant. So he had left and not on the best of terms. But the letters had helped repair the damage and then when he came home for the anniversary. And Africa helped him find Laurens, though not the way he had imagined. He found very quickly that Laurens was not in any agriculture or education, but rather in the _people_ he met, the _people_ he helped, the _people_ he connected with in ways he would never connect with someone from New York.

He found himself there, in the village and earth and brush, and he started going by “John” instead of J.T. as he always had before. He accepted a part of himself he had never seen and it opened doors for him and finally, yes, touched the spirit of that man who had made him. 

So he stayed in Africa, but he came home. The second time was for the wedding, which was as low key and humble as his parents’ anniversary had been grandiose and large. Mrs. Caleb Hamilton and didn’t both Burr and Hamilton hate the hell out of that. But Theodosia didn’t care in the least. She had fallen in love with the up-and-coming dentist and it all seemed perfectly natural to her, despite her father and now father-in-law’s grumblings. She’s beautiful, John thinks, and graceful, and she fits in perfectly well with his rather unorthodox family.

The wedding had been just a small family gathering of Burrs and the Hamilton/Jeffersons, with the occasional spattering of the Lafayette/Washingtons. Henry had brought Jamie as his date and the whole congregation seemed to tease them that they were next. Not likely, John had thought to himself, because if Henry had gotten anything out of his fathers, it was their flare of the unconventional. And Jamie--both gender-fluid and status-fluid, wearing perfumed scents that muddled whether they were really an omega, beta, or alpha--well, Jamie fit _perfectly_ with Henry, from their equal sarcastic snippings to their love of (lord, Jamie had just learned recently) “specialty vases” and the new shop they were erecting to their laissez-faire “love and be loved” attitude. But the point was: his brothers were happy. And he was happy, too, if in a different way.

And home.

The cab pulls up to the side of the curb and John takes a minute staring up at the house before paying the driver and stepping out with his luggage. He makes it about halfway up the steps before the front door flings open and Jamie is there, arms flung out and a big smile on their face. Henry is right behind them, grinning as well, and from inside John can hear the voice of Hamilton--both familiar and strangely foreign--as he argues with Theodosia over what seems to be _her_ chosen occupation as head of human resources for a business.

“J MAN!” Jamie says and gives him a bright hug. John hugs back and greets them warmly. After all, they grew up together. And after that, Henry, who is already halfway through talking his ear off.

“--Dad’s in the kitchen making his mac’n’stromboli. Jesus Christ, he still doesn’t understand that no one knows what that is. And Papa’s in the lounge--yeah, you hear him--arguing with Thea about how she’s wasting her intellect. Oh, and the Laf-Washs are on their way here, but they said they left late and were stuck in traffic.”

“My _dumb_ brother broke his _dumb_ arm,” Jamie explains. “ _Skateboarding_. But how are you?!? How was the trip?”

“Long,” John chuckles with a sigh at the end of it. “I’m beat.”

Henry wraps his arm around his older brother and leans over conspiratorially. “Need a hit? I got some stuff--”

John rolls his eyes and starts heading up the steps again. Jamie smacks Henry’s arm and the two follow him. John reaches the top of the stairs and moves on inside to see Hamilton gesturing wildly at Theodosia who’s looking up at the ceiling as if she’s bored out of her mind. Caleb is sitting on the couch next to his wife, smiling softly over at her and there’s no sign of Jefferson who must be, as Henry said, in the kitchen.

“J.T.!” Theodosia exclaims when he walks in and attempts to move toward him before Hamilton grabs his daughter-in-law’s arm and pulls her to a stop.

“No, no, little missy,” he rants and then turns briefly to John, does a double-take, addresses him with a “J.T.! You’re home! You’re next,” and then rounds on Theodosia again. “HR is no place for a Hamilton. No place for a Jefferson and don’t you dare tell your father this, Thea, not even a place for a _Burr_. What are you doing? We built this _country_ for you people. Dentistry! Human Resources! Africa! What happened to good old American politics, huh? What happened to creating a foundation? What happened to giving back to your _country_?”

“Yeah,” John says, sitting down his luggage and turning to Henry, “I’m going to go find Dad.”

Henry nods with a little laugh and John weaves into the kitchen. Jefferson is messing with something on the stove and his back is to John which allows him to pause for a moment of reflection. For a second, John is a kid again, rushing to help his dad cook, his grubby hands splashed with ink from where Hamilton was teaching him how to use a calligraphy pen. For a second, the sounds of the city are new, _exciting_ , and he hasn’t quite conceptualized what it means to have a father he never knew. For a second, his largest concern is that Henry keeps stealing his “My First Chemistry” set and Caleb keeps tattle-telling on him when he doesn’t brush his teeth. And he remembers so vividly the light of some unremarkable day years ago, the sunset and the smell of a casserole baking and Hamilton walking into the room with reading glasses on and his nose in a book of tax law and Jefferson kissing his cheek as he walked by to the reception of a soft little murmur and then Jefferson pulling Hamilton to a full stop and Hamilton smiling at him and the two of them kissing and John shrieking about how gross it was and then Jefferson grabbing him and tickling him until he shrieked _louder_ and spilled a glass of water all over the tax book and Hamilton not even being mad, laughing in the moment and this lingering sense of happiness worms its way into John’s heart and reminds him of what home is like.

“We hold these vows to be self-evident,” he starts. He smiles as Jefferson starts and turns around.

Thomas smiles wide and soft. “These _truths_ ,” he corrects, just like he always did when John got it wrong. “ _Toad_ ,” he says and rushes forward, snaps him up in a squeezing hug. “You’re home”

“Hey, Dad,” he says, squeezing back. “Making my favorite food?”

“Mac’n’stromboli!” Jefferson says with a laugh and a clap to his shoulder. “I finally have someone here who understands. Come on, I’m making the crust.”

John smiles and goes over, turns on the faucet, and begins to wash his hands. “The family seems as opinionated as ever.”

“Oh, you have no idea,” Thomas says with a chuckle. “But I’m not going to bore you with all of that. You’ll figure it out soon. How was the trip? Was leaving hard?”

“Yeah,” John says with a sigh. “But I’m happy I left, too. It was time.”

Thomas nods. “I understand that. Chapters in your life and all those things. Did you find yourself?” He smiles over at John with a sparkle in his eye.

“Yeah,” John says with a lift of his chin, “I did, thank you very much.” He laughs. “Well, at least a part of me. Still working on it.”

“We all are. I know I still am. And look at me. I’m old.”

John laughs again. “You’re not _that_ old.”

“Tell that to my bones.” Thomas smiles and hands him a mixing bowl with ingredients. John goes to it like it’s second nature.

“Well,” John starts and feels his nerves rattling in his skin. He’s nervous, so nervous, but he wants to say it. “I have something to tell you before you get _so_ old you lose your hearing.”

“Funny,” Thomas says with pursed lips. “Go ahead and tell your old man. What is is?”

“It’s…” John mixes the ingredients slowly. “I didn’t want to say anything until I _knew_. But it’s, ah, well...I didn’t quit the company _just_ because I was homesick.”

“Oh lord,” Thomas says and pulls his arm to a stop. “Is it a girl? Does she want to work in HR? Because I don’t think Papa could handle that right now.”

John laughs nervously. “No, not a girl. Um...you know I went to Africa to find Laurens, right?”

“Yes.”

“And you know I’ve always known the part of me that was from you.”

“Of course.” Thomas leans over and winks. “You’re my favorite. Don’t tell your brothers that.” He chuckles and then stops. “You know that’s just a joke, right? I love all of you--”

“Yeah, yeah, Dad, I know,” John reassures him. He sets the bowl down and then turns around, leans his back against the counter and puts his hands behind him on the marble. “I...I’ve been thinking about Papa and I want to know how I’m like him, I guess, and then I thought...okay, this was crazy. I just did it on a whim, but now I’m thinking it might stick and I think I might have found a purpose.”

“A purpose? What purpose?”

John steels himself. “I got accepted to law school. At Columbia.”

Thomas blinks rapidly and then slowly reaches up and puts his hands on both sides of John’s shoulders, squeezing just slightly. “You what?”

“Got accepted. At Columbia for their law program.”

“Toad...J.T., my boy...are you telling me you want to be...a lawyer?” Thomas’ eyes shine.

“No,” John says with a shake of his head. “I’m thinking...I want to be a politician.”

Thomas lets a sharp gasp go and then he calls loud and booming. “ALEX! ALEXANDER! GET IN THIS KITCHEN!”

A few seconds later and Hamilton is in the door, looking rushed and confused. “What the--?”

“Come here,” Thomas growls and then wrenches Hamilton from the doorway and pushes him right in front of John. “Say it again, Toad. _Say it again_.”

John takes a big breath and looks into his father’s confused, but hopeful face. “Papa...I submitted an application a while back. And um, I got accepted. To law school. At Columbia.”

Hamilton shrieks. Actually shrieks and Jefferson laughs and then John is engulfed in a hug so tight and so rough he’s worried he’ll have bruises. “My boy!” Alexander says with a laugh that sounds strangely emotional. “Are you going to be…?”

“I’m thinking about politics.”

“PRESIDENT,” Hamilton says. “Ten years. We can make it happen. I swear to every deity out there. We are going to do this. King’s College! Columbia! I have so much to tell you. I have your plan of study lined out. Don’t worry, I made it when you were seven. And I know what you should specialize in and don’t read the books they tell you. I have better ones. And don’t talk to the Bursar. His father, well, I kind of punched--you know what? Not important. We’ll get you through quickly and then governor, no. Senate. And then maybe secretary. Treasury or State? Oh, what am I saying. _Treasury_ , you’re too smart for State…”

Hamilton keeps talking, keeps pouring out information and John looks over his shoulder at Thomas and sees him smiling along, his hand firmly in Hamilton’s at Hamilton’s side and John returns his smile, feels his whole body grow warm and knows without a doubt in his mind that if he had a choice, he wouldn’t pick any other parents.


End file.
